DANTE

THE DIVINE COMEDY

A NEW VERSE TRANSLATION BY

CLIVE JAMES

DEDICATION

TO PRUE SHAW

without whom this book, like all my other books,

would never have existed

EPIGRAPH

Mouth, do what you can . . .

—Heaven, 14, 79

INTRODUCTION

Many people, not all of them outside Italy, think that the Divine Comedy is a rather misshapen story. And indeed, if it were just a story, it would be back to front: the narrator has an exciting time in Hell, but Purgatory, when it is not about art, is about theology, and Heaven is about nothing else. What kind of story has all the action in the first third, and then settles back to stage a discussion of obscure spiritual matters? But the Divine Comedy isn’t just a story, it’s a poem: one of the biggest, most varied and most accomplished poems in all the world. Appreciated on the level of its verse, the thing never stops getting steadily more beautiful as it goes on. T. S. Eliot said that the last cantos of Heaven were as great as poetry can ever get. The translator’s task is to compose something to suggest that such a judgement might be right.

This translation of the Divine Comedy is here today because my wife, when we were together in Florence in the mid-1960s, a few years before we were married, taught me that the great secret of Dante’s masterpiece lay in the handling of the verse, which always moved forward even in the most intensely compressed of episodes. She proved this by answering my appeal to have the famous Paolo and Francesca episode in Inferno 5 explained to me from the original text. From various translators including Byron we can see what that passage says. But how did Dante say it? My wife said that the terza rima was only the outward sign of how the thing carried itself along, and that if you dug down into Dante’s expressiveness at the level of phonetic construction you would find an infinitely variable rhythmic pulse adaptable to anything he wanted to convey.

One of the first moments she picked out of the text to show me what the master versifier could do was when Francesca tells Dante what drove her and Paolo over the brink and into the pit of sin. In English it would go something like:

We read that day for delight

About Lancelot, how love bound him.

She read it in Italian:

Noi leggevam quel giorno per diletto

Di Lancelotto, come l’amor lo strinse.

After the sound “-letto” ends the first line, the placing of “-lotto” at the start of the second line gives it the power of a rhyme, only more so. How does that happen? You have to look within. The Italian eleven-syllable line feels a bit like our standard English iambic pentameter and therefore tends to mislead you into thinking that the terzina, the recurring unit of three lines, has a rocking regularity. But Dante isn’t thinking of regularity in the first instance any more than he is thinking of rhyme, which is too easy in Italian to be thought a technical challenge: in fact for an Italian poet it’s not rhyming that’s hard.

Dante’s overt rhyme scheme is only the initial framework by which the verse structure moves forward. Within the terzina, there is all this other intense interaction going on. (Dante is the greatest exemplar in literary history of the principle advanced by Vernon Watkins, and much approved of by Philip Larkin, that good poetry doesn’t just rhyme at the end of the lines, it rhymes all along the line.) Especially in modern times, translators into English have tended to think that if this interior intensity can be duplicated, the grand structure of the terzina, or some equivalent rhymed framework, can be left out. And so it can, often with impressive results, each passage transmuted into very compressed English prose. But that approach can never transmit the full intensity of the Divine Comedy, which is notable for its overall onward drive as much as for its local density of language.

Dante is not only tunnelling in the depths of meaning, he is working much closer to the surface texture: working within it. Even in the most solemn passage there might occur a touch of delight in sound that comes close to being wordplay. Still with Paolo and Francesca: in the way the word “diletto,” after the line turning, modulates into di Lancelotto, the shift from -letto to -lotto is a modulation across the vowel spectrum, and Dante has a thousand tricks like that to keep things moving. The rhymes that clinch the terzina are a very supplementary music compared to the music going on within the terzina’s span.

The lines, I found, were alive within themselves. Francesca described how, while they were carried away with what they read, Paolo kissed her mouth. Questi (this one right here), she says, la bocca mi basciò, tutto tremante (kissed my mouth, all trembling). At that stage I had about a hundred words of Italian and needed to be told that the accent on the final “o” of basciò was a stress accent and needed to be hit hard, slowing the line so that it could start again and complete itself in the alliterative explosion of tutto tremante. An hour of this tutorial and I could already see that Dante was paying attention to his rhythms right down to the structure of the phrase and even of the word.

The linked rhymes of the terza rima were a gesture towards form, marking the pulse of the onward surge of the great story, which was driven by its poetry; and would be infinitely less great without its poetry, just as Wagner’s Ring cycle would be infinitely less great without its music. But Dante’s formal requirements for himself went down to the very basics of the handling of language. It was all very precise, and yet it all added up. Though it was assembled from minutely wrought effects, the episode really did have rhythmic sweep. My wife, clearly touched by my sudden impersonation of a proper student, said all the rest of the poem was like that too, including the supposedly colourless theological bits. Every moment danced, and the dance was always moving forward.

Over the next year or so, while I was reading Dante in the original to satisfy the requirements of the English tripos at Cambridge, I looked at several rhymed translations and found them strained. On the other hand the translations done in prose had whole chunks that were too dull to read, especially in the second and third books. The total effect of looking at so many translations was to be convinced that the job was thankless. One thing I could see clearly, however, was that any even halfway successful translation would have to rhyme, although the question was how, especially in those long stretches, later on in the poem, where not a lot seemed to be happening.

You could see easily why Byron went no further than his Paolo and Francesca; he couldn’t keep up the excitement if there was nothing for the excitement to bite on, as it were. Starting from the level of incident, he, or any other translator, couldn’t get down to the level of language. They could raise themselves to the level of thought: some of the translators were, mutatis mutandis, as educated as Dante was, who was one of the most educated men of his time even in the conventional sense, quite apart from the proto-scientific sense in which he was original without parallel. But they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, get down to the level where syllables met each other and generated force. That had to be the aim, impossible as it seemed; to generate the force, both semantic and phonetic: the force of both meaning and sound. Indeed, in the original, some of the meaning was in the sound. Unless a translator did something to duplicate how the poem sounded, he, or she, wouldn’t get near what it meant.

So the task, if task it was, went on the back burner and stayed there for about forty years. I was barely aware that I was even thinking about it. Helping me to be diffident on the topic were my memories of what my wife had said about the Dorothy Sayers translation. Back at Sydney University, when we first met in the late 1950s, she was studying Italian: the beginning of what would turn out to be a distinguished lifelong career of teaching and editing Italian literature, with particular attention to Dante. As part of the course, she had been required to produce a substantial paper; and she had made her subject the Dorothy Sayers translation, which was famous at the time and indeed is still well-known now: the total amount of money it has made for Penguin must be colossal. But my wife, always the closest of readers, was able even then to detect that Sayers had simultaneously loaded her text with cliché and pumped it full of wind.

Finally, not long after I retired, I thought I could see how a translation might work. I started by drawing the necessary conclusions from my knowledge of what to avoid. The first thing I had learned was that a strict terza rima was out of the question. Even Louis MacNeice, one of the great verse technicians of modern times, had resorted to half-rhyme in order to sustain a long poem in terza rima. And the sad truth about Autumn Sequel is that it is simply terrible. Its predecessor, Autumn Journal, had been a triumph—it should be ranked, in my view, as the great long poem of its time—but for that work he had allowed himself access to his vast stock of classical metres. In Autumn Sequel he stuck himself with the terza rima, and with a not very attractive version of it. I tried writing a longish poem in strict terza rima and could see that it was creaking with strain the longer it went on, thereby accomplishing the opposite of the desirable effect of a narrative form, which is to get you into the swing of the thing. With the dubious exception of Shelley’s The Triumph of Life, nobody has ever written a terza rima poem in English that makes you forget the form in which it is composed, and a terza rima translation of Dante like Laurence Binyon’s makes a feature of Binyon’s virtuosity rather than Dante’s mastery.

So if it couldn’t be in strict terza rima, and if a loosely rhymed terza rima wasn’t worth writing, what regular measure would carry the freight? Over the years I had written thousands of couplets and although I enjoyed using them for comic effect I knew that they wouldn’t fit this task. The Divine Comedy isn’t comic. A few couplets might come in handy to clinch each canto but on the whole the couplet suffers the drawback that Johnson spotted in the work of Pope: in a rhyme-starved language like English, the same rhyme sound keeps cropping up too early. Even if the words that rhyme are kept deliberately different each time—night/bright, light/sight, etc.—the sound is the same, and calls the wrong kind of attention to itself. And yet I wanted the rhyming words to be close enough together to be noticed.

Finally I realised that I had been practising for this job every time I wrote a quatrain. In my poems, ever since I started writing them in the late 1950s, the quatrain was the most common measure unless I was writing in free verse. Decades of practice had made the quatrain so natural to me that it had become a mode of thought. For this project, if the quatrain could be augmented with extra lines whenever the occasion demanded or opportunity offered, it would yield the ideal combination of strictness and ease. To reinforce the strictness, I would avoid feminine rhymes. When writing couplets, one veers inexorably towards feminine rhymes, and the effect, though often usefully flippant, is always in danger of recalling Gilbert and Sullivan. To match Dante’s gravitas, a strong, solid dignity would be required. Well, I had had plenty of practice in writing quatrains with masculine rhymes. So really I had spent all this time—the greater part of a lifetime—preparing my instruments.

Quietly I got the project under way, starting with the first line of the first canto. It would be a mistake to do the famous passages and then join them up: the welds might show. If my modified quatrain measure was to justify itself, it would have to work from the beginning, and be still working at the end—because the Divine Comedy ends as it begins, with the same feeling of exuberance that has been maintained throughout. Dante registers this exuberance even in his most desperate moments. He doesn’t stop singing just because something dreadful is happening. What he says is: something dreadful is happening even as I sing. It’s an interplay of form and content: the most ambitious that any literary artist ever attempted. Dante’s torrential cascade of poetic effects adds up to a claim. No poem could be equal to my subject: no poem except this poem.

I wanted my translation to provide parallels for such effects while maintaining all of Dante’s sense of economy. No poet, not even Shakespeare, could say quite so much so quickly, so the translator must know how to be brief. But there are things he can add without slowing the pace. (Or, indeed, taking more space: since English needs less room than Italian, there is latitude for adding things while keeping to the same length as the original.) Dante had barely finished the poem before the first commentaries began appearing. Commentary was thought necessary because Dante had composed every canto of his poem as if it were a weekend article based on news that had only just happened, and whose details did not need to be outlined. There must have been readers who, not having heard the news about who robbed whom and which pope double-crossed which prince, were puzzled even at the time.

Since then, the chances of being puzzled have multiplied, and there is also the increasingly pressing matter of making even references to the Gospels clear to readers who might not be familiar with them. The first commentaries inaugurated seven hundred years of scholarship and criticism which have gone on to this day, and the summary of all that knowledge and informed speculation is there at the foot of the page in any scholarly edition. But this translation would be for non-scholars in the first instance. Footnotes would be a burden to it. Ideally, the thing itself should carry all the information it would need. How to do this?

The reservoir of material at the foot of the page of a scholarly text (sometimes there are five lines of text and fifty of apparatus) provides the translator of the poem with an ideal opportunity to upload salient facts into the verse narrative and make things clear. There are stretches in all three books when it really helps to be told who belongs to which family; whether one family is at war with another; and what precisely happened to which city when it was betrayed. On the vexed question of theology—this crops up especially in the third book, Heaven—it can help to be told that a certain scholar represents a certain position. Almost always the relevant information is there on the page, down at the bottom. In numerous instances I felt justified in lifting it out of the basement and putting it on display in the text. It might seem bold to assume that Dante, if he thought the reader might not know, would have explained which features of a certain scholarly dispute he was referring to, but we can also assume that he didn’t want the reader to be presented with an insoluble puzzle. Dante wanted to be read. Every stratagem he employed tells us that. He was talking about the whole of creation at once but he wanted to glue the reader to the bench.

To help him do it for the present age, I opened up a way to make simple, sparing but sufficiently wide-ranging use of what we might call the basic scholarly heritage. My aim, when importing an explanatory detail, was to make the text more readable instead of less. Also I have cut back on his lists of names here and there, when a list is all it is. Perhaps boldly, I would say that all the reader needs to know is in the poem as I have presented it. As Dante, in Heaven, travels all over the sky, some of the references to the Zodiac might seem obscure, but they probably seemed so at the time: and really that’s all you have to know, that the references sounded learned. Dante’s first readers could take the more obscure points for granted while they followed the main points. My job was to make some of the main points more self-clarifying by putting in some of the explanations that had been accumulating at the bottom of the page for the best part of a millennium, but to do so without slowing the tempo. The result one hopes for is a readily appreciable outline of Dante’s Christian vision. Is it possible, though, in an age without belief?

Well, how much does Dante believe? The truth is that he didn’t want to believe anything if he couldn’t test it. As we trace the story through one hundred cantos, three regions and every shade of emotion from despair to bliss, we find that he believed in his journey to salvation. But if his belief had been without its doubts, there would never have been a journey; and at the very end we find ourselves concluding that the great poet, setting out the reasons for his faith, has reached conclusions that will eventually make blind faith impossible. Dante could ask questions about theology because he was in love with questioning itself; he was in love with the design of the divinely inspired universe because he was in love with design, which he could see in a fold of cloth and a fallen leaf.

Dante had a scientific mind: one of the first scientific minds we know of in the modern age, for which, indeed, he can be said to have built the foundations. His poem stands at the dawn of modern science, and therefore of the times we live in now: its essential moment is in its final vision, when Dante the traveller, at the apex of heaven, looks into the source of creation and sees the imprint of a human face. The Divine Comedy is the precursor of the whole of modern history, and I hope this translation conveys enough of its model to show that he forecast the whole story in a single song: a song of lights. The joy of discovery is what drives the poem, and if my translation gets some of that exultation into English verse then it will have done its work.

For all his majestic weight, there is also a lightness to Dante, and I hope to have got that in. Finally but essentially, tempo is one of the two main poetic elements in play. The other is texture. What we have, in this miraculous work of art, is a mutually reinforcing balance of tempo and texture, of a kind that had never been heard before over such a distance: fourteen thousand lines of it. Much as he worshipped Virgil, Dante was better at it than his master. If he could have read Homer, he would have found that he was better at it than Homer too. In the original Italian, you can hear it. But most of us will never read Dante in the original Italian. It’s a pious wish that translators are always making: they hope that the reader, intrigued by the translation, will be driven to learn Italian, etc. Common sense tells us that it will seldom happen.

To know a foreign language thoroughly is a big task, and to know its literature is a full time job. For more than fifty years, my wife’s scholarship, her tenacity and seriousness of purpose, have been there to remind me of what it means to be dedicated to Dante and to help pass on the body of knowledge associated with his name. Her work culminated first with her gold-medal-winning edition of Dante’s Monarchia for the Società Dantesca Italiana, the only national edition of any work of Dante edited by a non-Italian, and a labour of love that took her thirty years. It culminated all over again with the completion of her digital edition of the Divine Comedy’s manuscript tradition, a tool for all Dante scholars, and a thing of extraordinary beauty and utility. I hope she will forgive me for straying onto her territory, but really there is no contest. Beside her lucid and scrupulous scholarship, a translation counts for very little. But I have done my best with it, always encouraged by the memory of how, in Florence, she first gave me an idea of what it meant to be in the service of her great poet.

—LONDON, 2012

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

For Dante it was a strict rule not to rhyme the word “Christ” with any other word except itself. I have followed him in that, as in any other matter of decorum. But when it comes to vocabulary, the translator needs a decorum of his own. Dante, the man on the spot, never had to think about whether his words were apt to the age, whereas the translator, if he is not careful, will find himself thinking of nothing else. Not wanting to get between the reader and the original, I have tried to avoid anachronistic language except when it could hide itself in the blur of time. I used the word “bastille” only after checking that it might—just might—have reached Florence from Paris in time for Dante to hear it. “Breaker’s yard” is no doubt a modern term, but for a long time there have been ships and there were always places where they were broken up, so I thought a term like that might be slipped in, whereas one could not possibly use, say, “napalm,” a word which would have been very employable in the lower regions of Hell. Such a modern coinage would stand out like a phrase of recent slang in one of those television dramas where millions have been spent on the look of the thing but the whole effect is dissipated by an untimely phrase coming out of an actor’s mouth. Down among the Evil-Claws, however, I used modern low-life filth because a shock effect is exactly what such scatological language is always after.

As I mentioned in the Introduction, on numerous occasions I thought it useful to employ the time-honoured consensus of the scholarship in the interests of clarity, and lift a name, as it were, from the footnotes to the text. Let one instance stand for many. For hundreds of years it has been more or less agreed among the scholars that one of the animals Dante meets early in the poem is a symbol for Avarice. So I put that in. On the other hand, I have left some of the mysteries unsolved because there has never been an answer to them. Who was the Veltro? Scholars are still wondering, so the reader of this translation will have to wonder too. Such a question will soon become recognizable as a Dantesque puzzle. The renowned German scholar Karl Vossler once said that Dante was a great mystifier. And so he was, but not as much as he wasn’t. Really he was a great clarifier. The Divine Comedy is a vast act of illumination. Even for Hell, Gustav Doré was too dark an illustrator, and by the time we get to Purgatory the whole universe is lighting up, so that you can see, in fine detail, everything that the poet refers to. I may have taken a liberty, towards the very end, in making Dante seem to intuit the space-time continuum. Nobody ever intuited that before Einstein. But one of the tributes we must pay Dante’s great poem is that all subsequent human knowledge seems to unfold from it.

As to my chosen stanza form, there are no puzzles at all. The form is a quatrain, either simple or augmented, and any augmentations use the same rhymes, so abab might grow to ababa or ababab or sometimes more. The aim is an easy-seeming onward flow, except at the end of the canto, where a couplet closes the action with a snap. In every other formal respect, the layout is established by Dante himself. It was his idea to have one hundred cantos divided into three lots of thirty-three, with a single canto to start things off. These three groupings of cantos are known to scholars as canticles, but it is perhaps less ponderous to call them books. Dante ends each book with the word “stars.” It would be nice if the translator could do the same, but in English the word “stars” has very few words with which to rhyme. Rather than write a strained couplet to close each book, I wrote a final line in which the stars indeed show up, but not as the last word.

In the poetic world of Dante, things happen in a certain order; with the words, from start to distant finish, always sounding inevitable. Therein will lie the translator’s most daunting obstacle. Some of the phrases, known by heart to every educated person in Italy, sound more wonderful in Italian than they ever can in English. It was bound to happen, because different languages have different words for the same thing. In Italian, for example, there is the beautiful word “sinistra.” In English we just say “left”: nothing like as sinuous. By extension, there will be Italian phrases that the translator can’t hope to equal for their sonority. But working on such a large scale, there will be other Italian phrases that will offer opportunities to be rendered in English words as resonant as he knows how to make them. Finally, then, it will come down to what he can do with verse. The poet will be on his mettle. Part of his consolation, as he cudgels his brains through the long nights, is that Dante thought the same about himself.

A NOTE ON THE TRANSLATION

In this new translation of the Divine Comedy, Dante speaks through Clive James with a strong voice in English we haven’t heard before. The translator makes the unusual choice of recasting the original Italian into quatrains (not the tercets of Dante’s terza rima), which he meticulously constructs with keen attention to rhythm and rhyme. The poetic metre imbues the narrative with a drive that propels the pilgrim on his journey from Hell to Heaven. And with it James develops and sustains an impressive periodic syntax—see, e.g., Adam’s appearance in Canto 26 of Heaven—that pulls the reader in and pushes him along the poem’s course too. Unsuspecting readers will find themselves snagged, and happily so, even in the poem’s dense doctrinal passages, where often the most devoted fall by the wayside or simply skip ahead to what they imagine is the next good bit of poetry. Consequently, the Beatrice we hear speaking in these Jamesian quatrains (not to mention Thomas Aquinas, Bonaventure and Peter Damian, among others) may be the most convincing in English verse. In this translation there are no lulls when scholastic doctors or purging souls or prolix demons hold forth. Like the pilgrim, you too, good reader—lettor, Dante calls you in more than one direct address—move swiftly to the ultimate destination at the end of the poem.

James also makes the laudable decision to flesh out the more obscure references in Dante’s poetry by incorporating into the translation explanatory details culled from commentaries, which are often necessary to understand fully Dante’s point in a given passage. The translator decides where and when to add these for the sake of clarity. These additional bits, tipped in judiciously, actually bring the reader closer to the original by removing the necessity of having to consult notes. Some scholars may balk but the typical reader needs help in negotiating Dante’s elaborate network of references and will appreciate not having to search it out in footnotes, endnotes or notes in an accompanying volume. Anyone comparing this translation with the original may wonder at times why Dante didn’t do this himself. Clive James has given us a new Dante, a forceful Dante, a Dante who deserves to be heard.

—Dennis Looney

Dennis Looney, a professor of Italian and classics at the University of Pittsburgh, is the author of ‘My Muse will have a story to paint’: Selected Prose of Ludovico Ariosto (2010) and Freedom Readers: The African American Reception of Dante Alighieri and the Divine Comedy (2011).

DANTE

THE DIVINE COMEDY

BOOK

I

HELL

CANTO 1

At the mid-point of the path through life, I found

Myself lost in a wood so dark, the way

Ahead was blotted out. The keening sound

I still make shows how hard it is to say

How harsh and bitter that place felt to me—

Merely to think of it renews the fear—

So bad that death by only a degree

Could possibly be worse. As you shall hear,

It led to good things too, eventually,

But there and then I saw no sign of those,   10

And can’t say even now how I had come

To be there, stunned and following my nose

Away from the straight path. And then, still numb

From pressure on the heart, still in a daze,

I stumbled on the threshold of a hill

Where trees no longer grew. Lifting my gaze,

I saw its shoulders edged with overspill

From our sure guide, the sun, whose soothing rays

At least a little melted what that night

Of dread had done to harden my heart’s lake—   20

And like someone who crawls, half dead with fright,

Out of the sea, and breathes, and turns to take

A long look at the water, so my soul,

Still thinking of escape from the dark wood

I had escaped, looked back to see it whole,

The force field no one ever has withstood

And stayed alive. I rested for a while,

And then resumed, along the empty slope,

My journey, in the standard crofter’s style,

Weight on the lower foot. Harder to cope   30

When things got steeper, and a mountain cat

With parti-coloured pelt, light on its feet,

In a trice was in my face and stayed like that,

Barring my way, encouraging retreat.

Three beasts—was this the leopard, Lechery?—

Were said to block the penitential climb

For sinners and for all society,

And here was one, sticking to me like lime.

Not only did it hamper me, it made

Me think of turning back. Now was the time   40

Morning begins. The sun, fully displayed

At last, began its climb, but not alone.

The stars composing Aries, sign of spring,

Were with it now, nor left it on its own

When the First Love made every lovely thing

The world can boast: a thought to give me heart

That I might counter, in this gentle hour

Of a sweet season, the obstructive art,

Pretty to see but frightful in its power,

Of that cat with the coloured coat. But wait:   50

If fear had waned, still there was fear enough

To bring on Pride, the lion, in full spate:

Head high, hot breath to make the air look rough—

As rocks in summer seem to agitate

The atmosphere above them without cease—

So rabid was its hunger. On its heels

The wolf appeared, whose name is Avarice,

Made thin by a cupidity that steals

Insatiably out of its own increase,

Obtained from many people it made poor.   60

This one propelled such terror from its face

Into my mind, all thoughts I had before

Of ever rising to a state of grace

Were crushed. And so, as one who, mad for gain,

Must find one day that all he gains is lost

In a flood of tears, a conscience racked with pain,

Just so I felt my hopes came at the cost

Of being forced, by this unresting beast,

Little by little down towards that wood

Whose gloom the sun can never in the least   70

Irradiate. But all at once there stood

Before me one who somehow seemed struck dumb

By the weight of a long silence. “Pity me,

And try to tell me in what form you come,”

I cried. “Is it a shade or man I see?”

And he replied: “No, not a man. Not now.

I was once, though. A Lombard. Parents born

In Mantua. Both born there.” That was how

His words emerged: as if with slow care torn,

Like pages of a book soaked shut by time,   80

From his clogged throat. “Caesar was getting on

When I was young. That’s Julius. A crime,

His death. Then, after he was gone,

I lived in Rome. The good Augustus reigned.

The gods were cheats and liars. As for me,

I was a poet.” He grew less constrained

In speech, as if trade-talk brought fluency.

“I sang about Anchises’ son, the just

Aeneas, pious, peerless. When proud Troy

Was burned to ashes, ashes turned to dust   90

Which he shook off his feet, that marvellous boy.

He did what any decent hero must:

Set sail. But you, you turn back. Tell me why.

Why not press on to the delightful peak?

The root cause of all joy is in the sky.”

Almost too shocked and overawed to speak—

For now the one who fought for words was I—

I asked him, just as if I didn’t know:

“Are you Virgil? Are you the spring, the well,

The fountain and the river in full flow   100

Of eloquence that sings like a seashell

Remembering the sea and the rainbow?

Of all who fashion verse the leading light?

The man of honour? What am I to say?

Through learning you by heart I learned to write.

My love for your book turned my night to day.

You are my master author. Only you

Could teach me the Sweet Style that they call mine.

I could go on. But what am I to do

About this animal that shows no sign   110

Of letting me proceed? It scares me so,

My veins are empty, all the blood sucked back

Into the heart. There’s nothing you don’t know,

My sage, so tell me how this mad attack

Can be called off.” Then he: “You need to choose

Another route.” This while he watched me weep.

“This way there’s no way out. You’re bound to lose:

Bound by the spell of this beast pledged to keep

You crying, you or anyone who tries

To get by. In a bad mood it can kill,   120

And it’s never in a good mood. See those eyes?

So great a hunger nothing can fulfil.

It eats, it wants more, like the many men

Infected by its bite. Its catalogue

Of victories will be finished only when

Another dog arrives, the hunting dog:

The Veltro. As for now, it’s hard to see

Even his outline through the glowing fog

Of the future, but be assured by me—

The Veltro will make this thing die of shame   130

For wanting to eat wealth and real estate.

The Veltro’s diet will be bigger game:

Love, wisdom, virtue. It will operate

In humble country, eat the humble bread

Of that sad Italy where Trojans fought

Our local tribes: the Latium beachhead.

The brave Princess Camilla there was brought

To death in battle, and Prince Turnus, too—

Killed by Aeneas, of whose Trojan friends

Euryalus and Nisus died. The new   140

Great Dog will harry this one to the ends

Of that scorched earth and so back down to Hell,

From which, by envious Lucifer, it was

First sent forth. But by now I’ve pondered well

The path adapted best to serve your cause,

So let me be your guide. I’ll take you through

The timeless breaker’s yard where you will hear

The death cries of the damned who die anew

Each day, though dead already in the year—

No dated stones remain to give a clue—   150

The earliest sinners died, when time began.

And you’ll see, in the next eternal zone,

Those so content with purging fire they fan

The flames around them, thankful to atone,

Hopeful of being raised to join the blessed.

If you would join them too, we’ll reach a stage

When only someone else shows you the rest:

Someone more worthy, though of tender age

Beside me. I can’t tell you her name yet,

But what I can say is, the Emperor   160

Who reigns on high vows he will never let

A non-believer—though I lived before

Belief was possible—see where he sits

In judgement and in joy with the elect.”

Sad and afraid, but gathering my wits,

“Poet,” I said, “I ask you to effect,

In the name of that God you will never see,

An exit for me from this place of grief,

And then an entry to where I would be—

Beyond the purging flames of which you tell—   170

In sight of Peter’s Gate, though that relief

Demands for prelude that I go through Hell.”

And then he moved, and then I moved as well.

CANTO 2

The day was dying, and the darkening air

Brought all the working world of living things

To rest. I, only, sweated to prepare

For war, the way ahead, the grind that brings

The battler to hot tears for each yard gained:

To bitter tears, and memories more real

Than what was real and which is thus retained

Unblunted, edged with even sharper steel.

My Muse, my schooled and proven gift, help me:

It’s now or never. Fortify my mind   10

With the vivifying skills of poetry,

For what I saw needs art of a great kind.

I saw great things. Give them nobility.

Thus I began: “Poet I call my guide,

Judge first my powers. Will they serve so high

A purpose? Would you rather step aside

Than put me to this road? For you, not I,

Have told the world Aeneas, mortal still,

Went to another world, and not to die.

But if the Adversary of All Ill   20

Saw fit to let him live, thinking of who

And what he was—princely progenitor

Of everything that Rome would be and do

In times to come—who could deserve it more?

A man of intellect, the soul of Rome

And all its empire, he was singled out

There where the light eternal has its home,

At the Highest Level. Also, what about

That city? Though the world fell at its feet,

Rome was created first so that one day   30

Great Peter’s followers might have their seat,

Enthroned by the divine will. When you say

Aeneas sailed to victory, what he heard

Along the way ensured not only that,

But the papal mantle. So the Holy Word,

Sent backwards into time, aimed only at

Your hero, hit the mark. And then Paul’s ship,

The Chosen Vessel, came to Rome as well—

The vessel, in a sense, that Faith might sip

Renewal from, and did. But now, pray tell,   40

Why me? Who says that I get to go there?

Do I look like Aeneas? Am I Paul?

Not I nor anyone I know would dare

To put me in that company at all.

Therefore, if I persuade myself to go,

I trust I’ll not be punished as a fool.

Wise man, what I have not said, you must know.”

Just so, obeying the unwritten rule

That one who would unwish that which he wished,

Having thought twice about what first he sought,   50

Must put fish back into the pool he fished,

So they, set free, may once again be caught,

Just so did I in that now shadowy fold—

Because, by thinking, I’d consumed the thought

I started with, that I had thought so bold.

“If I have understood your words aright,”

Magnanimously the great shade replied,

“Your soul is crumbling from the needless blight

Of misplaced modesty, which is false pride

Reversed, and many men by this are swayed   60

From honourable enterprise. One thinks

Of a dreaming beast that wakes with temper frayed

And finds the prowler into whom it sinks

Its teeth does not exist. Upon that head,

That you be free of fear, I’ll tell you why

I came and what I felt when I was led

First to your quaking side by your far cry.

Along with all those caught between desire

To see the One Above and sheer despair

That they will never even see hellfire,   70

I was in Limbo. Out of the open air

She stepped, and stood, and then she called my name:

A woman beatific, beautiful.

Her scintillating eyes outshone the flame

Of stars. To disobey? Impossible.

I begged her to command me. She gave voice.

It was an angel’s voice, restrained and sweet.

‘Courteous soul of Mantua, rejoice:

Your fame lives on, exalted and complete,

And will throughout the world, from end to end,   80

Until the world ends. But I need you now.

In a deserted hillside field, my friend

Is fortune’s enemy, and can’t see how

To make his way. Terror could turn him back.

I’m not sure if he’s not already dead

Or if I’ve come in time to clear the track

That leads him, as in Heaven I’ve heard said,

To salvation. So if you would obey,

Go to him, and with all your verbal art,

With anything it takes, show him the way.   90

Do this for me, for I am sick at heart.

My name is Beatrice. Now you know your task.

Where I come from, and long to be restored,

Love rules me. It determines what I ask.

When I am once again before my Lord,

Then I to Him, whom all praise, will praise you.’

Her melody was done. Then I to her:

‘Woman of quality, know this is true:

One look at you and I knew who you were.

For only through that quality, the race   100

Of men raised by that quality, Virtue,

Can hope to set their eyes on the high place

Beyond any contentment they enjoy

Under the lower sky ruled by the moon.

So glad am I to be in your employ

I’d not have carried out my task too soon

If I’d already done it. Enough said:

I was persuaded even as you spoke.

But tell me this. Why do you feel no dread

Coming down here into this pall of smoke,   110

This ball of fire that pulses at the core

Of the higher world to which you would return?’

She spoke again: ‘A little, but no more,

To satisfy a mind still keen to learn,

I’ll tell you why to come here holds no threat

For me. Your Aristotle gets it right:

All fearful things we safely can forget

Except those which, allowed their freedom, might

Cause harm to others. God in mercy made

Me such that all your miseries touch me not,   120

Nor do the flames of this condemned arcade

Scorch one hair of my head. But now to what

Most matters. Take due note of this, great shade:

There is a woman in the sky laments

For the unfortunate I send you to.

Her pain at his entrapment is intense.

She is the Virgin, and, like me to you,

She told Lucy—the spirit of all Grace,

Grace that illuminates like the spring sun

The soul within: you see it in her face—   130

She told Lucy: “Right now your faithful one

Has need of you. You are my choice to go.”

Lucy, beside whom cruelty has none

To match her as an enemy, did so,

And came to where I sat with dear Rachel,

The soul of contemplation, as you know:

You loved your books and candlelight so well.

“Beatrice,” said Lucy. “Hear me. You that are

The picture of God’s praise, why do you not

Bring help to him whose love for you so far   140

Exceeded that of all the common lot

Who loved you too? Do you not hear his screams

Of agony? Do you not see the death

He battles on the river of bad dreams

Deeper than any ocean?” In a breath—

For never was one quicker in the world,

Whether to gain a point or flee his fate,

Than I was when I heard those words—I hurled

Myself from that serene, unhurried state

Like a thrown stone down here, putting my trust   150

In you, your honest tongue that draws to you

Honour from all who listen, as truth must.’

Thus Beatrice. Then she turned away, a new

Lustre appearing in her shining glance:

Her tears, which spurred me quickly to your side,

As she asked, lest this beast should seize its chance

To cut the straightest road, and you abide

Far from the lovely mountain. So then, why?

Why falter, weakling? Why so faint a heart?

Why doubt there is a highway in the sky   160

That leads to where all doubts are set apart?

Where is your courage, where your inner steel?

Three women loved in Heaven do their best

To make you loved there too, and still you feel

No shame at shrinking down inside your nest,

Afraid of your first flight. This isn’t real.

And what of me, who promised you much good?

Much good it did. Claiming to like my book!

Does the hero’s story shame you? So it should.”

Catching the firmness in his still fond look—   170

As the little flowers, bent by the night’s cold

And closed and smooth on the outside like gems,

When sunlight lights them straighten and unfold

And open opulently on stiff stems—

So did I find in my depleted strength

The strength of mind to lift my heart again.

I thanked them both at last, if not at length:

“Would she were here who came to my aid when

I was most lost. My thanks can have no end:

This is the start. And you, my guiding light—   180

Who listened to her like a loving friend,

Of mine as well as hers—with second sight

You saw into my soul, and said the things

That needed to be said for a return

To my first purpose. Thank you for what brings

My will and yours together: what I learn

From my teacher, master, leader.” So I said.

On the high, hard road, I followed, and he led.

CANTO 3

TO ENTER THE LOST CITY, GO THROUGH ME.

THROUGH ME YOU GO TO MEET A SUFFERING

UNCEASING AND ETERNAL. YOU WILL BE

WITH PEOPLE WHO, THROUGH ME, LOST EVERYTHING.

MY MAKER, MOVED BY JUSTICE, LIVES ABOVE.

THROUGH HIM, THE HOLY POWER, I WAS MADE—

MADE BY THE HEIGHT OF WISDOM AND FIRST LOVE,

WHOSE LAWS ALL THOSE IN HERE ONCE DISOBEYED.

FROM NOW ON, EVERY DAY FEELS LIKE YOUR LAST

FOREVER. LET THAT BE YOUR GREATEST FEAR.   10

YOUR FUTURE NOW IS TO REGRET THE PAST.

FORGET YOUR HOPES. THEY WERE WHAT BROUGHT YOU HERE.

Dark both in colour and in what they meant,

These words incised above a city gate

I read, and whispered: “Master, the intent

Of this inscription makes me hesitate.”

And he to me, reading my secret mind,

Said: “Here you must renounce your slightest doubt

And kill your every weakness. Leave behind

All thoughts of safety first, or be shut out.   20

We have arrived where all those who have lost

The sum of intellect, which is the Lord,

Bewail their fate and always count the cost,

Forever far more than they can afford.

I told you of this place.” He held my hand,

And even smiled, which gave some comfort when

He led me through the gate to a strange land

Where sighs and moans and screams of ruined men,

Filling the air beneath a starless sky,

Resounded everywhere, and everywhere   30

Was there inside me. I began to cry,

Stunned by the sound of an unseen nightmare.

Inhuman outcries in all human tongues,

Bad language, bursts of anger, yelps of pain,

Shrill scrambled messages from aching lungs,

And clapped hands, self-applause of the insane:

All this was whipped by its own energy

Into a timeless tumult without form—

Dark as a whirlpool in a dead black sea

Or a whirlwind sucking sand into a storm.   40

Ears ringing to the centre of my brain

From horror, “Master, what furore is this?”

I asked, “Who are they, so distraught with pain?”

Then he: “Their pride to have no prejudice,

Seeking no praise for fear of taking blame,

They were for nothing, nor were they against:

They made no waves and so they made no name.

Now their neutrality is recompensed,

For here there is no cautious holding back:

Voices once circumspect are now incensed   50

And raised to make each other’s eardrums crack.

Thus they are joined to that self-seeking squad

Of angels fitted neither to rebel

Against, nor put their heartfelt faith in, God—

Hunted from Heaven and locked out of Hell

Because the perfect sky would brook no blur,

And in the lower depths the rebels prized

The glory won from being what they were,

Not the nonentities that they despised.”

And I: “But Master, what could grieve them so,   60

To make them not just so sad, but so loud?”

And he: “To put it briefly, they have no

Death to look forward to. Their only shroud

Will be this darkness. They’re condemned to live

In envy always, even of the damned.

The world that gives fame to a fugitive

Gave none of that to them. Instead, it slammed

The door on them, and as for Him on high,

His mercy and His justice He withdraws.

They never even get to see the sky   70

That will not have them. But we should not pause

So long for wastrels weeping for what’s gone.

Enough of this. All that there is to see

You’ve seen. It’s nothing. Time that we moved on.”

But I, wide-eyed in that cacophony,

Saw something that my gaze could fix upon

At last: an ensign, twisting without rest

Because it knew no victory or defeat,

And fast behind it ran a crowd I guessed

No frightened city taking to its feet   80

To flee an earthquake could outnumber. So

Many there were, I would not have believed

Death had undone so many. There was no

Obstruction now to vision. Those who grieved

Were in plain sight, and some I recognised:

Among them Celestine, of heart so faint

He made the Great Refusal. If he prized

The papal throne—and some call him a saint—

So much, he should have sat on it, and not

Left it to be usurped by Boniface,   90

Who ruined Florence. Rooted to the spot,

I saw and knew for certain that this race

Of never-living sprinters were the ones

Who once believed fence-sitting no disgrace,

But now they sit no more. The whole bunch runs

Naked, with flies and wasps to stimulate

Their actions at long last, and their scratched cheeks

Spill blood that joins with tears to satiate—

A soup lapped from their footsteps as it leaks—

The mass of squirming worms that forms their track.   100

And when I looked beyond, I saw the bank

Of a mighty river, and another pack

Of people. I said, “Master, whom I thank

For secret knowledge, let me be allowed

To know who these ones are and why they seem

So ready, with a single mind endowed,

To cross in this grim light so great a stream.”

And he: “This matter I will speak upon

When you and I, like them, come to a halt

At that sad river called the Acheron.”   110

My gaze cast down in shame, fearing my fault

Of curiosity stuck in his throat,

I kept my silence until we were there—

Where suddenly an old man in a boat

Headed towards us, tossing his white hair

As he cried “Woe to you and to your souls!

Give up your hopes of Heaven! I have come

To take you to the other side. Hot coals

And ice await, to brand you and benumb

In everlasting shadow. As for you,   120

You living one, this route is for the dead:

Leave it to them.” But when I did not do

His bidding: “By another way,” he said,

“Through other ports and to a different shore

Your passage will be worked, but not through here.

For you a lighter boat than mine’s in store.”

And then my Leader: “Charon, never fear:

All this is wanted there where what is willed

Is said and done, so more than that don’t ask.”

At these hard words the bristling jaws were stilled,   130

And the eyes blinked in the wrinkled, flame-red mask,

Of the ferry pilot of the pitch-black marsh:

But all those naked souls unhinged by fate

Changed colour when they heard that speech so harsh.

Clicking their bared, chipped teeth in hymns of hate,

They cursed their parents, God, the human race,

The time, the temperature, their place of birth,

Their mother’s father’s brother’s stupid face,

And everything of worth or nothing worth

That they could think of. Then they squeezed up tight   140

Together, sobbing, on the ragged edge

That waits for all who hold God in despite.

Charon the demon, with hot coals for eyes,

Herds them yet closer with time-tested signs.

To anyone who lingers he applies

His oar, and as the autumn redefines

A branch by taking off its dead leaves one

By one until the branch looks down and knows

Its own dress, falling as it comes undone—

So Adam’s bad seed, grain by bad grain, throws   150

Itself from that cliff not just at a run

But flying, as the falcon to the glove

Swoops home when signalled. Out across the black

Water they flock, whereat the heights above

That they have left, without a pause go back

To being thick with people, a dark spring

Filling the branch for its next emptiness.

“My son, from many countries they take wing,”

My Master said, “but just the one distress

Collects them here. God’s wrath, in which they died,   160

Came from His justice, which now turns their fear

Into desire to see the other side.

No soul worth saving ever comes through here,

So Charon’s anger you can understand,

And understand why he spoke in that tone.”

At which point the dark ground we stood on heaved

So violently the shock wave still can soak

My memory with sweat. As if it grieved,

The earth wept while it moved, and plumes of smoke

Went sideways with the wind. A red light shone.   170

My reeling senses gave out. I was gone.

CANTO 4

Into my soundly dreaming head there broke

A sudden thunder so loud that I shook

Like one shaken awake. When I awoke

With sight restored, I rose and took a look

Around me, keen to know where I might be:

I and my Guide, the man who wrote the book

On quests and questions, doubts and destiny.

And true it was that I was on the edge

Of the great pit of the piteous abyss

Where sad cries have the dubious privilege   10

Of gathering in perpetual synthesis,

And griefs already infinite are by

Their own great number multiplied, to swell

Uproar to an eruption. It was Hell.

And as it sounded, so it looked: all bad.

Even the clouds were dark. I couldn’t tell

How far it went down. It was deeply sad.

“Now we descend into the sightless well,”

My Poet said, and paused. His cheeks were pale.

“First me, then you.” And I, at having seen   20

Him seem to flinch, said: “How shall I not fail,

If this scares you when usually you’ve been

The one to calm my fears?” And he to me:

“It is the anguish of those locked below

That paints my face with pity. What you see

As fear is something else. It’s time to go:

A long road calls.” And thus compelled by him

Who had compelled himself, I took a breath

And entered the first ring around the rim

Of that great well-head’s endless wall of death.   30

I was in Circle One. To the extent

That I could hear at all, all cries were sighs.

The air without end shook to the lament

Not just of men and women: with surprise

I saw young children too. Why were they sent?

I thought, and once again my Master saw

Into my mind, and said: “You do not ask

Who these ones are, why here, and by what law?

I’ll tell you, before we resume our task,

Of pain without a sin. But though they be   40

Ever so virtuous, no unbaptized

Souls are exempted from this penalty,

And if they lived before His Son, they prized

God insufficiently. And I was one

Of those. For such defects, and for no crime

More grave, we’re lost: for something left undone

We’re doomed to live without hope for all time.”

When I heard this a great grief seized my heart,

Because I knew that people of much worth

In ancient sciences and every art   50

Had been sent down by accident of birth

To Limbo. “Tell me, Master, for I must

Know this,” I begged him, needing to be told

My faith was not just powerful but just:

“Has even one, of all this place can hold,

Ever got out—by merit of his own

Or someone else’s grace—to join the blessed?”

And he, aware of the doctrinal bone

I picked at, said: “I had not joined the rest

Down here for long when someone of true power—   60

Crowned with a blaze of glory—came to choose

From this tremendous garden, flower by flower,

The lucky few from all He would refuse.

Plucked from the dark and lifted to the light

Were Adam, Abel, Noah, Moses—he

Who gave the law and kept the law in sight—

And Abraham the patriarch was free;

King David, Jacob, Isaac and their seed,

And Rachel, for whom Jacob forty years

Worked out the price and thereby proved his need;   70

And there were many others left their tears

Behind and went to be beatified,

But never before them was human soul

Delivered out of here.” So said my Guide,

But saying so, did not pause in his role

Of leader. We continued passing through

The forest thick with spirits. Not so far

From where I’d slept, I noticed something new:

Ahead of us, beginning as a bar

Of light, it swelled to form a hemisphere   80

Of fire that through the shadows burned a dome—

And from a good way off I guessed that here

Some honourable people had their home.

“My Sage so honoured in all fields of art

And science, who are these that by such light

Are honoured too, all others set apart?”

And he to me: “Divine grace shines its bright

Approval on them for the fame they earned

And still have in the world by what they made.

Here glory burns again as there it burned.”   90

A voice inside the radiant arcade

Responded with a ringing antiphon:

“All hail the greatest poet, for his shade

Returns, that we had thought was gone.”

When silence had come back to fill the space

The voice had left when it went still, I saw

Four great shades come towards us, and each face

Was neither glad nor sad. My Guide said more:

“Behold the one with upright sword in hand:

He walks by right before the other three,   100

For he is Homer, who put his Greek brand

On all the Romans, not excluding me.

If you could read him, you would understand

Why we, who can, verge on idolatry

In praising him. Horace the satirist

Is that one there, then Ovid. Lucan last.

Because that voice put my name on its list

With these, it did me honour unsurpassed.”

So I saw gathered the immortal school

Of him who sang below the walls of Troy,   110

And over all who write shall always rule

Like a watchful eagle in its high employ,

Spreading its wings on winds we know are there

Only because it glides across the sky

So easily, as if born in the air,

And never to descend, even to die.

And after they had talked a little while

They turned, with signs of fellowship, to me:

Whereat I saw my Master broadly smile.

And, still more honour from that company,   120

They said that I was with them from now on,

Sixth of their school, the college of the wise.

And so it was, until the light was gone,

We walked and talked of what I must surmise

Were best left unsaid now, but when said then

Was fit, and, dare I say it, flattering:

Such words I hardly hope to hear again

But just to hear them once meant everything.

Surrounded seven times by one high wall

Inside another, plus a pretty stream   130

As moat, a castle noble, strong and tall

Now stood before us. As if in a dream

We walked across the water. Seven gates

I passed through with my five wise ones, until

We reached a fresh green lawn. The ancient greats

Awaited us: their eyes were grave and still,

Their features full of calm authority.

Sparely they spoke, in voices sweet and soft.

They were so many that, to count them, we

Withdrew to a well-lighted place aloft.   140

From there, above the green enamel, I

Looked down on each and every face of fame,

The sight of which I’d been exalted by

Already, only now I heard the name:

Electra, whose beloved son built Troy,

And whose companions saw it end in flame

Or died defending it. I heard with joy

That this was Hector, this Aeneas. There,

Just as essential for a later age,

Was Caesar with his griffin’s fiery stare.   150

Princess Camilla stood at centre stage

With Penthesilea, the war-like Queen

Of the Amazons, she whom Achilles slew,

And the King of Latium was on the green

As was Lavinia, his daughter. Who

Would not be moved to know this was the first

Brutus, the one who laid proud Tarquin low?

Lucrezia, wife of Collatine, well versed

In grace; and Caesar’s daughter whom we know

As wife to Pompey, the chaste Julia,   160

And Marcia, Cato’s wife. Cornelia too,

Daughter to Scipio of Africa

And mother of the Gracchi. Names I knew

Only from books, without reserve revealed

How they had looked—except the Saladin,

Sadly by robes of shadow part concealed:

He helped our age of learning to begin,

But had another faith. Lifting my gaze

A little, one I saw who sat in state

Among the family of philosophers—   170

Their father, of all thinkers the most great:

Aristotle. Looking up to him in praise

Like all the others, even Socrates

And Plato, who preceded him, were each

Lost in their awe of his abilities

At amplifying what they’d had to teach:

The moral law. There was Democritus,

Who said the world is made of tiny parts

That interact by chance, unseen by us.

Diogenes and Anaxagoras,   180

Thales, Empedocles were side by side,

And Heraclitus who said any mass,

Even if still, still moves. There in his pride

Was Zeno, stoicism’s founding voice,

And next to him was Dioscorides

The herb collector. I was spoiled for choice:

Where next to look, among these prodigies?

And I saw Orpheus and Cicero,   190

Linus, and Seneca the moralist,

Euclid and Ptolemy. There in a row

Were famous adepts first to get the gist

Of modern medicine and help it grow:

Hippocrates and Galen, with the two

Arabs who led the world in this respect:

Avicenna, then Averroës, who

Wrote down what both could conjure and confect

In his Commentary that none doubts to be true.

And these and all those others on the lawn—   200

So many giants of the intellect—

Were like the first sunrays that build the dawn.

I can’t speak fully of them all. My theme

Is vast, and drives me on so that the facts

Often exhaust my words. Again a team

Of two, we entered into cataracts

Of trembling air, all quietness left behind—

Where no light shines and all who see are blind.

CANTO 5

So we descended out of Circle One

To Circle Two: the less in measurement,

The greater in its sad cries fit to stun

The senses. Here, deciding who’ll be sent

To which reception, the Selector looms

Whose name is Minos. Horrible to see,

He’s worse to see in action. Separate dooms

For separate deeds, betokened by how he

Runs rings around himself with his long tail,

So many turns for such and such a fault.    10

The tortured souls, confessing without fail,

Are thus assigned to that drawer in the vault

This connoisseur of turpitude may deem

Appropriate, while to his platform comes

Another load to share the same wild dream.

They watch his living bull-whip do its sums

Always for others, not for them. Not yet.

And then it’s their turn, as they count the loops

That weigh the crimes they hoped he might forget—

And down they go, sad army, naked troops,   20

To find their level. “You that come to stay

At this unlucky lodge, watch where you tread

And whom you trust,” Minos was moved to bray.

“The width of Hell’s mouth doesn’t mean the dead

Who get in ever get to go away.”

My Leader spoke for me: “Shout till you drop:

His travel papers bear a sacred seal.

This thing is wanted where the moot points stop

And certainties begin. There’s no appeal.”

Here, after Limbo, as I had before,   30

I heard the countless outcries of lament

Combine to strike me as a constant roar.

This was a place where every light was spent.

It ranted as the sea does in a storm

That splits its own winds to go left or right,

Shrieking in all directions. Thus the form

Of the infernal tempest: day and night

The same, forever shapeless, without rest

It rends and roils the spirits with its force.

They are the smeared signs of how it is blessed:   40

Their cries can testify to its remorse.

And when they come to where the rocks are cracked

By background pressure, and a fissure gapes

Before them, then we hear the law attacked

That brought them to this pass so none escapes,

As all yell their complaints at that brute fact.

I understood this was the punishment

For carnal sinners, who let appetite

Rule reason, and who, once drawn, are now sent—

Like winter starlings by their wings in flight—   50

Across the bleak sky in a broad, thick flock:

Here, there, now up, now down, the winds dictate

Their track. Small hope of pausing to take stock

Of whether anguish might not soon abate

At least a little, and no hope at all

Of peace. And as the cranes sing when they fly,

In a long line attracting with their call

Our eyes to them as they move through the sky,

Just so I now saw souls borne on the wind

Trailing their cries of grief towards the spot   60

Where we stood. “Who are these? How have they sinned?”

I asked my Master. “Dare to tell me what

Dooms them to be so harshly disciplined.”

“The first of those of whom you would have news

Was empress of many peoples.” So explained

My Master. “Willing neither to refuse

Demands from her own lust, nor to be stained

By rules against it, she rewrote the law

To make praiseworthy what had been her vice

And vicious what was virtuous before.   70

Her name is Semiramis. More than twice

As bad as her hot blood was her incest:

She married her own son so they could rule

The Sultan’s lands, Egypt and all the rest.

The next is Dido, Queen of Carthage, cruel

To the ashes of her husband when she slew

Herself because of love: not love for him,

But for Aeneas. Cleopatra, too—

That dark one there—desire led to a grim

Reckoning. Behold Helen, in whose name   80

A sea of trouble came to Troy in ships,

And Paris knew it was a sea of flame,

The fire that started when he kissed her lips.

And there’s Tristan . . .” A thousand more at least

He named, the shades who left our life for love:

The gentle women of a time long ceased

To be, and all their cavaliers. Above

My head, the waves of fear closed and increased

Their turbulence, and I was almost lost.

Then I to him: “My Poet, I would speak   90

With those two—by the ill wind swept and tossed

As light as dead leaves on a mountain creek—

Who do not fly alone, but as a pair.”

And he to me: “Call out, when they can hear,

In the name of love that leads them through the air,

And they will come to you.” When they drew near

I spoke: “Tormented spirits, come to us,

If Someone Else does not forbid you to.

You fly for love, and love we should discuss,

Though it stir shades into a witch’s brew.”   100

And as when doves that long for their sweet nest

See it, and with their stiffened wings spread wide,

Moved only by desire come home to rest,

So these from Dido’s squadron turned aside

And down through the malignant atmosphere

They came to us in an unerring glide,

So deeply had my summons to appear

Touched them. “O Being gracious and benign—

Visiting us in air whose darkness is

Tinged by the blood of all in our long line—   110

If the Emperor of the Universe in His

Great mercy were our friend, then we would pray

For your repose, because of your distress

At our sad fate. What you would have us say

Let’s hear about, now that the wind blows less,

So we may speak before it howls once more.”

So she began, he silent in assent.

“Born where the Po descends to the seashore

To meet its followers and rest content,

I was a beauty. Love, in gentle hearts,   120

Strikes quickly, and the fair form I once had

Before I cruelly lost it—by dark arts

That still offend me—quickly drove him mad.

Love pardons no one loved from Love, and I

Was drawn to him with what force you can see:

It still holds me beside him as we fly.

Love gave two lives one death for destiny.

As for who killed us, Cain will help him die.”

Those stricken souls, through her we heard them speak:

And when I understood the full import   130

Of what was said, as if my neck grew weak

I hung my head. My Guide said: “Lost in thought?”

I was indeed. When I could breathe, I said:

“Alas, so many sweet shared thoughts and things

Brought them this fate they think unwarranted.”

Thus I to him. To them: “Your sufferings,

Francesca, make me weep for grief and more.

But tell me, in that time of your sweet sighs,

In that first flush, how love made you both sure

Of what you half saw in each other’s eyes.”   140

And she to me: “Life brings no greater grief

Than happiness remembered in a time

Of sorrow; and he knows that well, your chief,

Who now walks in a world of dust and grime

When once he took bright laurels as his due.

But if to know the one true origin

Of our Love means so very much to you,

Then even as I weep I will begin.

Reading together one day for delight

Of Lancelot, caught up in Love’s sweet snare,   150

We were alone, with no thought of what might

Occur to us, although we stopped to stare

Sometimes at what we read, and even paled.

But then the moment came we turned a page

And all our powers of resistance failed:

When we read of that great knight in a rage

To kiss the smile he so desired, Paolo,

This one so quiet now, made my mouth still—

Which, loosened by those words, had trembled so—

With his mouth. And right then we lost the will—   160

For Love can will will’s loss, as well you know—

To read on. But let that man take a bow

Who wrote the book we called our Galahad,

The reason nothing can divide us now.”

One spoke as if she almost might be glad,

The other wept as if forgetting how

To stop. And I? I fainted dead away,

And went down as if going down to stay.

CANTO 6

When I came round, and was no longer blind—

My pity for that self-deluding pair

Gave me much grief, and grief had closed my mind—

I saw new types of torment everywhere

Around me, so no matter where I turned

Were the tormented. This was Circle Three,

And here there was no fire, and nothing burned.

Instead, a dark cold rain falls heavily

Forever. At a rigidly fixed rate

And steady density, the muck descends   10

Through shadowed air already dark as slate.

The fall of dirty water never ends,

With hail and snow mixed in. The soaked earth reeks.

The people stuck in it have Cerberus

To guard them. Overhead, that creature shrieks

In anger with three mouths, each hideous

As a mad dog’s. Beards greasy black, eyes red,

Big belly, fingers well supplied with nails,

He scores and scrapes and tears them to a shred—

Those that the rain already hardly fails   20

To make howl—and they turn from side to side

As if they could keep something unbesmirched

By his paws, though they have no goods to hide,

No house but this remaining to be searched.

When Cerberus the hulking worm got wind

That he was not alone—he never is,

In view of how he’s made—he turned and grinned.

His hungry mouths displayed those teeth of his

In six rows. Every limb was quivering.

My Leader spread his hands and, to his wrists,   30

He dug down through the slop so he might fling

The loads of firmer sludge caught in his fists

Into those gulping throats, and like three hounds

That yelp for greed but shut up when they eat,

The monster made the small contented sounds

It doesn’t make for souls spread at its feet.

Those we passed over, where they lay prostrate,

Gripped by the mud and held down by the rain.

We trod on ghosts as if their actual state

Were human and they did not flinch in vain.   40

Supine or prone, they all lay stretched out flat,

Except for one who sat up when he saw

Us pass, and said: “You that I’m looking at

Instead of through, because no fatal flaw

Yet sends you here to stay: do you know me?

You should, for you were born before I died.”

And I to him: “Perhaps my memory

Aims at the mark you set but wanders wide

Through air unsettled by your agony.

But tell me who you are, and why sent here   50

To such a punishment that none more great

Could well be worse, so much it fills with fear

A visitor not marked for the same fate.”

And he to me: “Our city, then as now

A sack of envy stuffed to spill its load,

I spoke for in the world, where I knew how

To put myself about, my sharpest goad

The supper I sang for. ‘Ciacco,’ they said,

‘Sit down and eat.’ And now it’s here I sit,

Wrecked by the rain because of broken bread,   60

Like anyone too fond of eating it—

Like all those here now. See how we are fed.”

And I replied: “Ciacco, your moans of pain

Meet mine, and I am—almost—moved to tears.

But if there is foreknowledge you retain,

Then tell me if just one Just One appears,

To save the city. What becomes of them,

The disunited Florentines? And how

Did all this start? What snapped the diadem

That once encircled the untroubled brow   70

Of Santa Reparata? Diplomat

You were. You know things. Give me what you know.”

Then he to me: “At first, the usual spat

Or two, then drawn-out tension, then the blow

By blow expansion, then the all-out fight

Between the Blacks and Whites. With due offence

The Whites drive out the Blacks. Day follows night,

And in three years the Blacks come back. Immense

Success, with help from Boniface. In tears,

The Whites find out the hard way that their shame   80

Is just the start of payment in arrears

For the crime of losing. Two men have the name

Of being just, but no one listens. Three

Real motives: Envy, Avarice and Pride—

Fires of the Florentines, as you will see.”

And I to him, although I knew my Guide

Grew restive: “Still there’s something I would know

Ahead of time. Those men who wished no ill—

Tegghiaio, Farinata, Jacopo

Rusticucci and Arrigo, Mosca—will   90

I find they rose to grace? Or do they weep?”

And he to me: “The whole bunch rot in Hell,

Black souls that different faults have driven deep.

Go down that far, you’ll see how far they fell.

But if it’s true you’re going all the way

Back to the sweet world, tell them who you met.

They might remember. That’s all I can say.”

Whereat, his gaze still fixed on mine, he bent

His head and lay back down to join the blind.

My Leader said: “Until the air is rent   100

By the angel’s trumpet—and the dead shall find

Their graves, take fleshly form, and hear resound

The eternal echoes, as shall be decreed

By the Last Judge—this one, held by his ground,

Will never wake again. Shall we proceed?”

And so, with slow steps, fording the foul blend

Of shades and rain, we moved, our speech concerned

With life beyond the tomb. “After the end,

What starts?” I asked. “Will all those who have earned

Their place down here feel less pain from the Day   110

Of Judgement on, or just the same, or more?”

And he to me: “What does your science say?

The more a thing’s more perfect than before

The more it takes delight, or feels despair?

Although these damned will never know a true

Perfection, they’ll be closer to it there,

Beyond that Day. So: much more than they do

Must be the answer to your question.” We

Had walked the inner edge of that great ring

With much more talk about theology   120

That I have room or time for rendering.

We reached the entrance to a lower zone,

But first the fearsome Plutus stood alone.

CANTO 7

“The Pope pops Satan, Satan pips the Pope,”

Plutus barked raucous nonsense, while my Guide,

Who knew all things, to give me back my hope

Said: “Don’t let fear of him turn you aside.

Whatever power he has will never stretch

To stopping your descent to the next stage.”

And, turning to the fat lips of the wretch,

“Wolf, shut your mouth,” he said. “Swallow your rage

And let it eat your guts. He goes with cause

Into the depths, for it is willed on high   10

Where Michael the Archangel planned the wars

Against the rebels.” As when all winds die

And sails, once swollen, flap and fall in folds,

Just so the beast lay flat. We left it so,

And down to Circle Four—and what it holds

For its share of the universe of woe

Contained in the immeasurable pit—

We went. Merciful God! Who gets it in,

This wretched harvest? What accounts for it?

And why to such pain are we led by sin?   20

For just as waves above the clashing jaws

Of Scylla and Charybdis rush to fight

Each other, so these shades danced without pause,

More of them than had so far met my sight.

From either side damned souls let out a shout

And roll weights with their chests until they crash

Together, whereupon they turn about

And shriek “Why pile it up?” and “Why waste cash?”

And work in a half-circle to the point

Opposed, still giving out their spiteful yell,   30

And turn to joust again. Heart out of joint,

I said: “My Master, who are these, pray tell:

And were these tonsured ones here to the left

Once clerics?” He to me: “Yes, all of them

In their first life were so of sense bereft

They spent like wastrels, and thus they condemn

Their madness, barking every time they find

Themselves returned to either of the two

Opposing points at which their faults of mind

Divide them. One and all were clerics who,   40

Head sticking through their hair, were ruled by greed.

There are popes here, and cardinals.” And I:

“My Guide, should I not then in such a breed

See faces that I can identify,

Famous for sins of avarice and waste?”

My Master answered thus: “That thought is vain.

In life for their dim sight they were disgraced:

Here they are dimly seen, and must remain

Forever split into two charging teams:

Those money-grubbing ones who from the grave   50

Arise with grasping fists and foolproof schemes,

And these with hair close-cropped to show they gave

As those took—a two-sided robbery

That stole the world from both and set them here

In this unprepossessing scrum that we

Lack words to dignify. You see it clear,

My son: the squalid fraud as brief as life

Of goods consigned to Fortune, whereupon

Cool heads come to the boil, hands to the knife.

For all the gold there is, and all that’s gone,   60

Would give no shred of peace to even one

Of these drained souls.” “Master,” I said,

“Finish the lesson you have just begun:

Tell me who Fortune is. How has she spread

Her arms to seize the world’s wealth?” A sharp glance:

“Half-witted mortals, how is it you know

So little even of the ignorance

That starves you? That you not continue so,

Now feed on news of how I estimate

The Understanding that transcends all things,   70

And made the heavens, and gave each heavenly state

The luminous intelligence that brings

Light from each part to every other part

In perfect measure. Just so, on the Earth,

Fortune, his minister, with timely art

Endlessly portions out, for what they’re worth,

The riches of the world from man to man

And race to race—and none can even guess,

Because no human sense can know her plan,

Why one has power, another powerlessness—   80

According to her judgement where she lies

Unseen, just as the grass conceals the snake.

Your mortal judgement shrivels up and dies

Compared with hers, perpetually awake,

Providing, weighing, balancing. She rules

Her realm the way the lofty ones rule theirs.

Unceasing alterations make her tools

Invisible, so quickly her affairs

Must be arranged and rearranged. She, then,

Who is so often cursed by those who should   90

Praise her, thinking themselves forsaken men,

Although, by breaking them, she brought them good—

She, then, although she hears no human word

Of her true value, happy like the rest

Of those first creatures—who have always heard

Their praises sung—nevertheless is blessed,

The world her wheel. And so much for your doubt,

For now we must descend to deeper grief,

As all the stars that rose when I set out

To meet you, start to fall. Even a brief   100

Pause in our course is not permitted. Move.”

We cut across the circle to a ledge

Above a fountain spurting in its groove

And spilling back, swamping the precinct’s edge

With water more a turgid grey than black;

And we, in company with that grim flood,

Picked our way down an ankle-turning track

Into the place beneath, where sliding mud,

Spread thickly from the foot of those dark slopes,

Became the sad, slow river called the Styx.   110

While I stood doing nothing except look,

I thought at first my eyes were playing tricks

As these slime-covered naked people shook

With anger. Not with sticky hands alone

They hit each other, but with heads, chests, feet

And teeth. They bit each other to the bone.

And my great Guide to me: “Son, here you meet

The souls of those who gave way to their rage.

But know, too, there are those who lurk below

The surface—from the bubbles you can gauge   120

Their number—who could let no anger flow,

Or any feeling else. Stuck in the mud,

They croak: ‘In that sweet world the sun made glad,

Our hearts were stopped with a slow, smoking flood.

In these dank depths we work at being sad.’

This is the chorus their clogged throats emit:

The best that they can do.” Thus we traversed

A great arc of that filthy, festering pit,

Walking between the dry bank and the cursed

Wet edge that sighs to suck you into it,   130

Always our eyes on those lost to its power—

Until we faced the foot of a tall tower.

CANTO 8

Just to go back a bit, I should have said

That long before we reached the tower’s base

We saw two lights set on its lofty head,

To which a third light, from a far-off place,

Sent back a pinpoint signal. Turning to my

Attendant sea of wisdom, I asked: “What

Does this mean? And that other fire’s reply,

What is it? And who tends that flame?” “Let not,”

He said, “the foul fumes of the marsh deceive

Your eye, for what’s to come, no longer there,   10

Is almost here.” When did an arrow leave

A bowstring and run whistling through the air

More quickly than this little boat skimmed in

Across the sludge? “Caught you!” the oarsman cried.

“Guilty as charged!” “Flegias, cut the din:

This time it counts for nothing,” said my Guide.

“You get to keep us only while we cross

This swamp.” As one who knows that some great fraud

Is practised on him, and resents the loss,

So Flegias in his bottled rage. My lord   20

Stepped down into the boat, and then made me

Step after him, and only after I

Was on board did the craft appear to be

Laden. Thus, then, the ancient prow, less high

Than usual since its cargo weighed much more

Than shadows, moved off, cutting all too deep

Into the muck, from which there rose, before

Our gaze, a man-shaped darkly streaming heap

Of that same stagnant stuff we rowed through. “Who

Are you that come before your time?” And I   30

To him: “If so, it’s not to stay. But you,

Who are you, to be such a mess?” “I cry,”

He said, “as all the damned do.” Me again:

“Cry all you like, mud crab. Thicken your mask.

I still know who you really are.” Just then

He reached with both hands for the boat, his task

To turn us over, but my wary chief

Warded him off, and said “Get back down there

With the other dogs.” And then, to my relief,

My Master’s anger turned to loving care,   40

His arm around me as he kissed my cheek.

“Disdainful one,” he said, “blessed was the womb

That held you. In the world, he was the peak

Of arrogance, and now, beyond the tomb,

With not one good word to adorn his name,

He rages at his own inanity.

And there are others up there of the same

Persuasion they are kings. They, too, will be

Pigs in this filthy sty, and leave behind

Nothing but curses rained upon the hole   50

Their swelled heads filled.” And I: “I have a mind,

Before we leave this festering soup bowl,

To see it swallow him.” My Master said:

“Before we reach the other shore, your wish

Will be fulfilled.” And soon, as if they fed

A hunger, we saw men like muddy fish

Surround him, and I thanked God as they cried

“So, Filippo Argenti! Not so great!”

While even he sank teeth in his own hide,

That tortured Florentine. Such was the state   60

We left him in. I have no more to tell,

Save of the sound of grief that struck my ears

As I gazed forward. “Son, you should note well,”

My Master said, “that now the city nears

Called Dis, home of a thoughtful populace

And mighty garrison.” I in my turn:

“Master, already I can see its face.

The mosques within its ramparts seem to burn

As red as iron new-drawn from the fire.”

Then he: “The fire eternal makes them glow   70

So red. Here Hell becomes the funeral pyre

That burns in Circle Six and burns below.”

Between the outworks and the walls that showed

Their fever of that city sad and vast,

The moat was deep, and through it ran the road

We followed far around, until at last

We came to where the boatman bellowed “Out!

Now we get out of here and go in there!”

His cry was nothing to the angry shout

Of a thousand angels, fallen from elsewhere   80

Like rain to make the door a thing of dread.

“Who’s this,” they yelled, “who dares to go while still

Alive into the kingdom of the dead?”

By signs my silent guide expressed his will:

A wish to speak in secret. They cut back

A little on their uproar of bad grace.

“Just you, then,” said the leader of the pack,

“And let your friend, the unfitting one, retrace

The false steps that have boldly brought him here

On a mad road. Leave him alone to face   90

His journey home. He might have known more fear

Had you, his sponsor, not shown him the way.

Now let him tremble. Lose him. You, draw near.”

Think, reader, of the depth of my dismay

At these forbidding words. They were a curse:

Never, I thought, would I be here again.

I to my Master: “Nothing could be worse

For me now than to be as I was then,

Without you. You have seven times and more

Saved me from danger and rebuilt my heart.   100

If I’m denied the path that lies before,

Then let’s go back together to the start.”

“Fear not,” said he who had brought me this far,

“For nobody can interrupt a course

Mapped for us from on high. Stay where you are,

And with the food of hope restore the force

Of your weak spirits. Never would I leave

You on your own down here.” And so he goes,

And leaves me half convinced that I deceive

Myself that this is not what I suppose.   110

Am I betrayed? What he said to unman

Those sentinels I couldn’t hear, but he

Was not long there with them before they ran

A race to go back in, and instantly

They shut the door against him. He began

With pensive steps the slow walk back to me,

Eyes on the ground and brow bereft of all

Serenity. And as he went, he sighed:

“Who are they who presume to guard the wall

That keeps me from where sufferings reside,   120

Its weeping houses?” Then to me: “Be not

Dismayed that I should grieve. In this contest

Of wills I shall prevail, no matter what

That gang in there come up with. For the rest,

There’s nothing new in their intransigence.

They used it once before to bar a gate

Less secret, which still stands without defence,

Its locks and bolts undone by Someone Great.

You saw, above its head, the mortal text,

Yet came through to the slope, and since have come   130

Down through the circles, first one, then the next,

As far as this, and I am the whole sum

Of your protection. Therefore, why be vexed?

To lay this city open, we need no

Sanction beyond what sent us. Shall we go?”

CANTO 9

Seeing how his reverse had paled my face,

My Leader summoned up the means to drive

The same pallor from his. He checked his pace

And stopped to listen, as a man would strive

To make up with his ears for his dimmed eyes

In dark air and thick fog. “Nevertheless,”

He said, “We’re bound to win, or otherwise . . .”

He paused, and then: “But no. That’s idleness.

We have such help. But why is it so late

In coming?” I saw clearly how the first   10

Thing that he said the next would mitigate

To calm my fear. From that, I feared the worst:

Perhaps these fragments had a common source

In some deep theme too terrible to tell.

I said: “Does anyone in the long course

Of time descend into the hellish well

This far whose proper place is Circle One,

Where none are damned but all hope is cut short?”

I questioned, he gave answer. “Almost none

Of us have made a journey of the sort   20

That I make now, though I did once before,

Through the magic of Erichtho, who recalled

Souls to their bodies. Seeing how I wore

My flesh no longer, that fell Sybil hauled

Me through the wall of Dis and down to fetch

A spirit from the lowest circle, where

Judas resides. You’ve seen only a sketch

So far of what this pit is like down there

At the bottom of the dark: far out of sight,

The crystal sky that makes the world turn. I   30

Know well that journey to the end of night,

Although condemned too soon to live and die.

But rest assured that it is just for now

We are debarred from the sad city which

Adds such unholy rage—we’ve just seen how—

To its protection by this stinking ditch.”

And more in the same vein, but I forget;

My gaze was focused on a bastion

The ruins of whose high rim were beset

In an instant by the triple power, close-drawn,   40

Of three infernal furies, stained with blood.

In form and manner female, they were clad

With snakes, and smaller snakes, as if from mud,

Rose from their hair, and their fierce temples had

Snake-spawn with little horns for diadems.

My Guide, who knew full well the coiled intent,

And the foul taste for such hissing, writhing gems,

Of Proserpine, Queen of the Long Lament,

Said: “Look! Eumenides! There on the left,

Megaera. On the right, Alecto weeps.   50

Tisiphone is she who fills the cleft

Between them. A Greek nightmare never sleeps.”

I shook for fear against my Poet’s side.

“Bring on Medusa! With her aid we’ll make

This man a stone!” So, looking down, they cried.

“With Theseus we made a big mistake.

Now for revenge!” My Master: “Turn your back.

Hands over eyes. Tight fingers. Stay that way.

Just one glimpse of the Gorgon through a crack—

Goodbye forever to the light of day.”   60

And he himself turned me around, nor did

He trust my own hands, adding his as well

To guard my eyes. You of sound mind, I bid

You look beneath the strange, veiled way I tell

This story to the struggle in the soul

Of one who seeks redemption. Now, across

The turbid waves, there came a thundering roll

Of fearful sound, with both banks at a loss

To stay still, trembling at the violent roar

Of such a summer wind as heat propels   70

Into the woods when, fallen to the floor,

Split branches fly away, and dizzy spells

Of dust are driven by its boastful pride,

And even the wild beasts and shepherds flee.

“Now train your gaze across that scum-skinned tide,”

He said to me as he set my eyes free,

“To where the fog is thickest.” As the snake,

Their enemy, sends frogs down fading through

The water to the bottom of the lake

To squat and wait, so I now had in view   80

More than a thousand dead souls fleeing. One

Who passed dry-shod across the Styx had come,

Clearing its thick air from his face. This, done

With his left hand, and often, was the sum

Of all the sufferings that sapped him: no

Compassion and no fear. I could well see

That he was Heaven-sent. I made a show

Of turning to my Guide, but he told me,

With just a sign, to shut my mouth and bow.

Disdainful angel! Who now faced the gate   90

And with a little sceptre touched somehow

Its secret spring. Not even with its weight

Did it resist. The way was open now.

“You outcasts from the sky,” the angel cried

On the ghastly threshold. “You rejected race,

Where did you get your overweening pride?

Why fight against the will none can outface

And which so often has increased your pain?

By flouting the decrees of providence

Some call the fates, what can you hope to gain?   100

Remember Cerberus and get some sense.

Those wounds he carries at his throats and jaws,

Chains made, when he was dragged out of the way

Of Hercules in Hades. There are laws.”

Thus having said what he had come to say,

Without a word to us, and with the air

Of one with other business on his mind

More pressing, he turned back and left us there

To watch him take that filthy road. Confined

No longer, by his holy words set free   110

From doubt, we could take certain steps towards

The city, and without a struggle we

Went in, and I, agog to see the hordes

Held there, and how, took one quick look around

And there they were, broad fields on either hand

Of pain and cruelty: the sight, the sound.

Just as the Rhone at Arles dissolves the land

Into a swamp, just as at Pola near

Quarnero where the bounds of Italy

Are set and bathed, just so I saw it here,   120

But far worse: the uneven territory

Of graveyards, and among the tombs were fires

That made them glow with more intensity

Of heat than any forge or stove requires.

The lids were lifted. Such cries of lament

Came out of them as only the despised

And desperate could make. “Who has been sent,”

I asked my Guide, “to lie here paralysed

In open boxes? Whose groans do we hear?”

“Arch-heretics,” he said, “and every sect   130

That followed them. And more than might appear

Roast in these glowing ovens, which collect

Their occupants according to what sort

Of error they espoused, and so assign

The fitting heat to which they should be brought

And kept at, as forever they repine.”

Then we turned right, and passed between all this

Destruction and the lofty wall of Dis.

CANTO 10

My Master, by a hidden path, now made

His way between the city and the plain

Of torment. As I followed him, I stayed

Close to his shoulder. “You by whom I gain

Access,” I said, “to all these rings of sin,

My Height of Virtue, could you stoop to tell

Me this much? These tombs. Those who lie within,

Can they be seen? The lids are off. As well,

No one keeps guard.” And he to me: “They all

Will be locked down when, from Jehoshaphat,   10

They come back with the bodies they let fall

On Earth. In this part you are looking at

Lie Epicurus and his followers

From ancient times until the present day—

All who believe that death for souls concurs

With death for flesh. Your question? Let’s just say

That soon it will be answered there inside,

Along with the desire that you conceal.”

“Master,” I said, “the reason that I hide

My heart is just to answer your appeal,   20

Made several times, that I say less to you.”

“Tuscan who earned on earth by fitting speech

The right to walk invulnerable through

This city’s fire, one moment, I beseech,

Of your time. By your accent, you were born

In that same noble country which I left—

Perhaps because of my ideals—more torn

Than mended.” I, of bravery bereft

By this abrupt voice from the tomb, now drew

A little closer to my Guide. And he   30

To me: “Come on, what’s wrong with you?

Look where he rises so that you can see

His whole form from the waist up. Know him now?

It’s Farinata.” I had turned my eyes

To his. I knew him. Proud in chest and brow,

He rose like one who only can despise

All Hell can do. The sure hand of my Guide

Steered me to him between the sepulchres,

With this advice: “Make your words dignified.”

I stopped at the tomb’s foot. There was a pause.   40

The shade surveyed me. Then, in scorn almost,

He asked: “Your ancestors, what was their cause?”

Keen to obey, I told him. If a ghost

Can raise an eyebrow, his did. Then, his voice:

“Your people were fierce enemies to me

And mine, and to my clan. I had no choice:

Twice, they were scattered.” “You mean made to flee,”

I said, “And if they did, they twice returned

From every haven they took refuge in,

An art you Ghibellines have never learned.”   50

Another shade, on view from crown to chin

Only, now rose beside him. On its knees,

I think, it looked around me where I stood,

As if I had not come alone to these

Extremes, and then, its last hopes not made good,

It spoke through tears: “If you for your great skills

In poetry are led here through this blind

Bastille, where is my son, he who fulfils

The same description. Is he left behind?”

And I: “Not just my own worth brings me here,   60

And He who waits for me where I might go,

Your Guido could have held Him much more dear.”

His words and form of pain had let me know

His name already, hence my full reply,

At which he jerked straight. “What is that you say?

‘Have held,’ not ‘holds’? You use the past tense. Why?

Does he not live? Does not the light of day

Still sweetly wound his eyes?” When he had seen

How slow I was to answer, he fell back

And disappeared. As if this had not been,   70

That other great one who had checked my track,

His face unchanged, his neck unbent, still straight

His body, spoke to what I’d said before:

“If it be true they failed to learn, my fate

In this bed hurts me less than that thought. Nor

Will you be spared, for fifty moons from now—

The moon which is her face, the one who reigns

Down here—you White Guelphs will be taught just how

Hard it can be to come back. It remains,

If ever you return to that sweet air,   80

For you to tell me why the Florentines

Conspire to drive my kindred to despair

In all their laws.” And I: “Our senate means,

By what it speaks, to recollect the rout

And massacre of Montaperti. Red

With blood the Arbia flowed.” For once in doubt,

He sighed and shook his head, and then he said:

“It wasn’t me alone, nor, with the rest,

Would I have moved unprompted. But alone

I was, when all agreed it would be best   90

To wipe out Florence. I was on my own

In a defence with open helm professed.”

“So that your faction might at last know peace,”

I begged, “assist me to untie a knot

From which my tangled judgement craves release.

Is what I’m told a fact, that you have got

The secret of foreseeing what time brings,

But only at a distance, and not now?”

“Like those with faulty sight, we can see things

Only far off,” he said. “For that is how   100

Much light the Lord still grants us. Things more near,

Or here, leave our minds helpless, and unless

The news is brought by others, nothing’s clear

About the human state. Thus you may guess

That all we know will lie dead on the Day

Of Judgement, when the future will be sealed.”

Then sorrow for my fault moved me to say:

“Could you now tell that other one who reeled

And fell back, that his son yet lives? And let

Him know that if my answer was so slow   110

Before, it was because I was beset

With that doubt you have settled.” Keen to go,

My Master was recalling me. In haste

I begged the shade to read the roll of those

There with him. He to me: “Here lie encased

More than a thousand. Fiery tombs enclose

The second Frederick, sensual emperor,

And Cardinal Ottaviano who

Boasted of his lost soul, and many more

Of whom I will say nothing.” Back into   120

His crucible he vanished, and I turned

Towards my ancient Poet, thinking still

Of what I had just heard, and how it burned

With such hostility. “And what thoughts fill

Your head?” he asked as we walked. I replied.

“What he has said against you, you should hold

In memory,” he said. “But that aside,

You must attend to what you see unfold

As we proceed.” He pointed, and spoke on:

“When you are bathed in the sweet radiance   130

Of her whose fair eyes leave the sun outshone

And see all, then the full significance

Of your life’s journey you will learn from her.”

He turned left, and the wall was at our back,

And downward, even further than we were,

We worked towards the centre on a track

Into a valley which, even as high

As where we strode, still stank to make you cry.

CANTO 11

On the edge of a high rim of broken rock—

Boulders that formed a mighty circle’s arc—

We came upon a crowd I saw with shock

Were even more tormented. Here the stark

Force of the stench that welled like a wound’s pus

Drove us to shelter in behind a vault

Inscribed: “I hold Pope Anastasius,

Led by Photinus to the grievous fault

Of scorning all belief in the straight way.”

“Here if we pause in our descent awhile   10

So that our senses can adjust, we may

Proceed with less revulsion at this vile

Breath from Hell’s throat.” So said my Guide. And I:

“How can we make up for the time we lose?”

And he: “My thoughts exactly. Bounded by

These cliffs, my son, are three more circles whose

Diameters, like those we’ve left behind,

Decrease as they go down. All three are packed

With blighted spirits. You should bear in mind—

So the mere sight will be enough, in fact,   20

For you to understand—how they’re confined

And why. Crimes Heaven hates have for their end

Injustice, and that end afflicts someone

Either by force or fraud, and must offend

The Lord, for fraud is human, and ills done

By humans please Him least, and therefore they,

The tricksters, lie low down and suffer more.

In the first circle here, which is to say

The seventh if you count all those before,

The violent lie in three zones. And why three?   30

Violence is done to three: to God, the man

Who does it, and the neighbour. It can be

For what they are—a crime whose only plan

Is hatred—or else for their property.

You’re looking puzzled. Let me make it plain.

By force, death and cruel damage can be dealt

To someone in himself, and the same pain,

If what he has is hurt, is sorely felt:

Ruin, extortion, burning. Thus it is

That murderers and all who would inflict   40

Damage from malice, all the plunderers

And pillagers, for this first zone are picked

To suffer, each to his due squad assigned.

And since a man may violate by force

Himself and what he has, so we must find

It fit that in the second zone remorse

Without relief assails him who deprives

Himself of your sweet world, gambles away

His gifts, and here is joined to the lost lives

Who must shed tears forever and a day   50

For joy they might have had. Then, the third zone:

Violence to God, done in the secret heart

By doubt, or done not just through thought alone

But outright blasphemy, negates the part

God plays in nature. Thus the smaller ring

Stamps with its seal both Sodom and Cahors

(That is, the usurers) and all who bring

Contempt against God from behind closed doors.

Fraud eats the conscience, whether used against

Those who trust us or those who trust us not.   60

In the latter case, the bonds of love dispensed

By nature are undone. Thus you have got,

In Circle Eight, toadies and hypocrites,

Magicians, forgers, thieves, thugs, dealers in

Holy preferment, everything that fits

The definition of sheer filth. The sin

Arising from the former case? Still worse.

With natural love forgotten, added trust

Is ruined too. When this sad universe

Draws to the tightest ring, when it is just   70

A central point where Lucifer resides

In Circle Nine, the traitors are consumed

Forever.” I said: “Master, your report

Thus far is clear. How this pit of the doomed

Is portioned out to hold them you’ve made plain.

But tell me why those of that stygian slime,

Those driven by the wind, lashed by the rain,

And their own tongues, must serve their endless time

Like that and not like this, here in this red

Metropolis. Is not the wrath of God   80

Upon them too? If not, why are they led

To suffer?” He to me: “How your wits nod

And wander aimless! Can’t you concentrate?

Don’t you recall how Aristotle shows,

In the Ethics, that three different kinds of state

In humans breed all crimes that can oppose

Themselves to heaven’s will? Incontinence,

Malice and brutishness? And of those three,

Incontinence is held the least offence

By God, and so is punished less? You see,   90

Or ought to, how this basic teaching yields

The reason that all those we left outside

And higher up in their respective fields

Are separate from the wicked who reside

Down here. These were more guilty. Hence, divine

Justice assails those less than it does these.”

“Bright sun,” I said, “you calm these doubts of mine

As you heal any troubled sight. Such ease

You bring me that to question pleases me

Like being answered. But could you just touch

Again on one point? You said usury   100

Offends the holy goodness. Why so much?

Turn back a little and untie that knot.”

“Philosophy,” he said, “to him who reads

It well, speaks more than once of what

Dictates the course of nature. It proceeds

According to the holy mind and art.

And from the Physics, a few pages on,

You’ll find your own art a dependent part

Of nature’s, as a pupil draws upon

His teacher’s principles to the extent   110

That he can grasp them. Thus your industry

Is God’s grandchild. By this twin element

Of nature’s force and human effort—see

The book of Genesis, near the beginning, where

Men are enjoined to earn their bread by sweat—

Humanity needs must accept its share

Of effort to advance. The trade in debt

Ignores that pact. His course set otherwise,

The usurer holds nature in contempt

Both in herself and in her human guise,   120

Simply by how he holds himself exempt

And sets his hopes elsewhere. But time for you

To follow me, for here we can’t remain.

On the horizon’s rim they shine like dew,

The quivering fish of Pisces. The great Wain

Lies over Caurus. Soon the dawn will break,

And the cliff give us a downward path to take.”

CANTO 12

The place we came to for our next descent

Was alpine, and because of what it held

No eye would seek it. As, downstream from Trent,

By either earthquake or weak ground impelled,

The landslide struck the Adige’s left bank

So that the shaken peak now joins the plain

Through one steep slope the traveller might thank

For steps of broken rock, the same again

Was this path downward into the ravine,

And on the chasm’s edge outstretched there lay

The infamy of Crete, by whom I mean   10

The Minotaur, conceived on the sad day

When Pasiphae wore the cow of wood,

And when he saw us he began to eat

Himself, as one whose rage would, if it could,

Consume him, hungry for the nearest meat.

My wise one cried: “Perhaps you think that I

Bring you the Duke of Athens, Theseus,

Who in the living world taught you to die?

Beast, get away. This man will not discuss

Plans with your sister. He is on the road   20

To see the suffering in the realm you guard.”

As a bull that breaks loose when the final goad

Delivers the death stroke, but is debarred

From running, lunges here, there, anywhere,

So did the Minotaur, and when my Guide

Saw this, he cried: “That passage over there!

Run for it while he’s still preoccupied

With his own fury, and start down!” And so

We picked our way down those piled rocks, which moved,

Because they felt a weight they did not know,   30

Often beneath my feet, and thereby proved

That I was mortal. As I went, I thought.

And he: “You think about this ruined cliff,

Guarded by that wild beast whose rage I brought

To heel just now? You’d not have seen it if

You’d been with me the first time I came here

Into the depths of Hell. None of this rock

Had fallen then. Love caused it to appear

When He who took his pick from Limbo’s stock

Came down to the top circle. Then Love shook   40

This putrid valley to its depths. I felt

The universe feel Love. (Some others look

On Love as causing chaos that can melt

The world entire, and has, repeatedly.)

That was the moment when this rock was thrown

Down thus, both here and elsewhere. But now see,

Below, that river. Made of blood alone,

It holds and boils all those whose violence

Has injured others.” Blind greed! Brainless rage!

In our brief lives they drive us beyond sense   50

And leave us misery for a heritage

Throughout eternity! I saw a wide

Moat, curved, just as my Escort had outlined,

To frame the level. Here on the near side,

Between the moat’s edge and the cliff behind,

A line of archer centaurs ran, as they

Had done on Earth when chasing game. They saw

Us coming down, and stopped. Three broke away,

Bringing their best-made arrows. “Lest I draw

My bow,” one cried from far off, “tell us what   60

Torment you come to. Why descend the slope?

Tell us from there.” My Master: “You we’ll not

Taunt with an answer. Chiron, there, can cope:

Your hasty will was always your disease.”

Then he touched me, and said: “The one who shouts

Is Nessus. For the wife of Hercules,

Fair Deianira, he died, and the gouts

Of blood that soaked his shirt avenged him. He’s

Nothing beside great Chiron. That’s him there

In the middle, looking down at his own chest.   70

He had the young Achilles in his care.

The other one is Pholus, so possessed

With rage. And this is just the one patrol

Of the centaur army. Round the moat they go

In thousands, loosing shafts at every soul

That lifts itself out of the blood by so

Much as an inch more than its guilt permits.”

Now we were near to those quick beasts, Chiron

Pulled back his beard with where the notched bolt fits

Into the string. Mouth bared, “Keep your eyes on   80

That second one,” he told his friends. “His feet

Shift what they step on. Dead feet never do.”

At Chiron’s breast, where his two natures meet,

My Master said of me: “He lives, it’s true.

And he’s alone. It is for me to show

This clouded valley to him. He is brought

Here by necessity, not pleasure. So

Someone instructed me who had cut short

Her hallelujahs. He is not a thief

And nor am I, but by the Power that steers   90

My steps on this road wild without relief,

Choose from your ranks, to be our eyes and ears,

One who can find the ford, or take a man

Across the bloodstream on his back, for men

Cannot fly through the air as spirits can.”

Chiron turned to his right, and “All right, then,”

He said to Nessus. “You can double back,

Show them the ford, and scare off any band

Like ours that you might meet.” Off down the track

We moved with our new guide, on the last land   100

Before the bubbling red, in which the boiled,

Up to their eyebrows, screamed. “Tyrants who dipped

Their hands in blood, they never then recoiled,”

Said the great centaur. “Lust for plunder gripped

Them once, and how it got them where they are

They now regret, as you can hear. But see,

That’s Alexander, called, by Seneca,

The Cruel and not the Great. And Sicily

Suffered from that man, Dionysius,

For long years. And that brow with the black hair   110

Belongs to Ezzelino, tortured thus

For tortures given. That one is the fair

Obizzo d’Este, smothered by his son

Up there. Down here, what takes his breath away

Flows from the things he did, and not those done

To him.” I turned to hear my Poet say

“That last news will make certain what you guess.”

We moved on. When the centaur stopped once more,

There was a crowd below us who were less

Deeply immersed than those we’d seen before.   120

Mere murderers, they had caused less distress

And so their heads, as far down as the throat,

Stood out above the blood like flesh and bone

While Nessus, pointing, bade us both take note

Of one shade who appeared to stand alone

Even among the alone. “That one is Guy

De Montfort, who in God’s house took a life,

And now the heart he stabbed sits in the sky

Above the Thames, and still it feels the knife

And still drips blood.” And after that I saw   130

People who stood with head, neck and whole chest

On view, and I knew many. More and more

The blood grew shallow. Leaving raw the rest,

It cooked only the feet. Here we could cross.

“On this side you may see the blood run thin,”

The centaur said, “But there is no real loss,

For on the other side more blood flows in

To fill a bed which goes on deepening

Until it reaches where the tyrants groan

As Holy Justice puts the sacred sting   140

To Attila, Scourge of Earth. In the same zone

Are Pyrrhus, Rome’s inveterate enemy,

And Sextus, likewise. Justice milks the tears,

Let loose by steam the boiling gore sets free,

From Rinier da Corneto. Recent years

Have seen the high roads made a battlefield

By him and Rinier Pazzo. Same first name,

Same ruthlessness. But time forced them to yield—

And when their world died, this was where they came.”

The centaur turned. We watched his head-high stride   150

Back through the ford across the crimson tide.

CANTO 13

Nessus was not yet back to the far bank

When we set out into a forest void

Of any pathway. No green leaves, but dank,

Discoloured. No smooth boughs, but cloyed

With knots, warped. No sweet fruits, but just the blank

Stems and envenomed thorns. Beasts who despise

The cultivated land that lies between

Cecina and Corneto would not prize

A home this thick and harsh. Here can be seen

The nests of loathsome Harpies that once chased   10

The Trojans from the Strophades with dire

Warnings of woe. Wide-winged and human-faced,

Clawed feet, big feathered bellies, a strange choir

Sobbing from stranger trees their sad ill will.

And my good Master: “You should understand

Before you go on, that from here until

You reach the Third Zone’s horrifying sand,

You travel in the Second Zone. So fill

Your eyes with things of which I could not speak

And be believed.” I heard from every side   20

Crying, but saw none cry. My spirits weak,

I stopped. I think he thought I thought, my Guide,

That all these voices from the trees belonged

To people hiding from us. He to me:

“To prove that in your thoughts the truth is wronged,

Break off a little branch from any tree.”

I reached to pluck a twig from a great thorn

Whose trunk cried: “Who are you to tear me so?”

The trunk turned dark with blood as if more torn

Than barely touched, and went on: “May I know   30

Why you assault me? Pity can’t mean much

To one like you. We who were men are now

Dead wood. You might have shown a gentler touch

Had we been serpent’s souls.” And then somehow

The twig, too, cried. Just as a green brand weeps

Both sound and sap when it burns from one end

And, from the other, hissing liquid seeps,

So my torn trophy bubbled forth a blend

Of blood and words, at which I let it fall

And stood afraid. My Sage said: “Wounded soul,   40

Had he believed what he, before, in all

His life, saw only in my lines, then whole

You would have stayed. Thought would have stayed his hand.

But such things were so far beyond belief

Even to me, I failed to understand

The consequences you would pay in grief

Were I to urge him on, and I grieve, too.

But tell him who you were, so he can make

Some restitution by restoring you

To worldly fame, for he has leave to take   50

The road home, by a heavenly remit.”

The trunk said: “You so charm me with your speech

I too must speak, so please put up with it

If I should prattle trying not to preach.

Know me for Piero della Vigne, who

Kept both the keys to Emperor Frederick’s heart.

So smoothly did I lock and unlock, few

Men saw into his secrets. To the part,

So glorious, of chancellor, I brought

Such faithfulness I lost both strength and sleep.   60

Envy, that common bane of any court,

The harlot who haunts Caesar’s house to keep

Her shameless eyes on all that happens, set

Men’s minds against me. My Augustus, fired

By rumour’s flames, was driven to forget

All honours due to me. Soon I was mired

In misery, accused of treason, lost

My eyes. Then, in my cell, my scornful mind,

Despising scorn from others, paid the cost

By making me, the just man, yet more blind,   70

Even to justice, when myself I slew.

But by the new roots of this tree, I swear

That to my dear Lord I was always true,

True to his well-earned honour. When you’re there,

Should either of you get back, please rebuild

My memory, that still, from envy’s blow,

Lies wrecked, a worse death than the one I willed.”

My Poet waited, then addressed me so:

“Now that he’s silent, seize your chance to ask

What further questions you might have.” Then I   80

Gave answer: “Once more I give you the task

Of seeking what you think might satisfy

My doubts. I can’t, so much does pity fill

My heart.” And so my Guide began again:

“That this man freely answer to your will,

Imprisoned shade, say more of how and when

A soul is tied in knots, and, if you can,

Tell us if ever any is set free.”

The trunk blew hard, and quickly what began

As wind became a voice: “These points can be   90

Quite briefly answered. When the violent soul

Uproots itself and leaves a corpse, Minos

Sends it to Level Seven. Protocol

Decrees that it not mitigate its loss

By choosing where it falls into the wood.

It falls where thrown by chance, and then, a grain

Of grief, it sprouts. Then, where a sapling stood,

There’s suddenly a savage tree, whose pain,

When Harpies come to eat its leaves, must find

A vocal outlet. Like the rest, one day   100

We’ll go to fetch the flesh we left behind,

But it will never clothe us in the way

It did, for Justice would be undermined

If one who robs himself should own once more

The thing he stole. So we will drag them here,

Those bodies, and the thing he was before

On each tree in this wood will hang, so near

Yet so far from its murderous soul.” We were

Still listening, in case the trunk was not

Through talking, when we heard a sudden stir.   110

As one who, waiting in his chosen spot,

Is still surprised to hear the boar-hunt charge

Towards his post—the beasts, the crashing through

Of branches—we were stunned to see at large,

There on our left, two naked runners, two

Scarred runners, and they fled so fast they snapped

The tangle-wood. “Come now!” the first one cried,

“Come quickly, death!” The other, looking sapped

Of winning speed, yelled: “Lano, why the pride?

You ran at Toppo but you still got killed.”   120

He crouched, perhaps because his breath was short,

Close to a bush. The woods behind them filled

With black bitches, ravenous for the sport

And swift as unleashed hounds. They chose the one

Who squatted there to get their teeth into,

And bit by bit tore him apart. That done,

They took the suffering pieces beyond view.

My Escort took me by the hand and led

Me to the bush, which sobbed: “O Jacopo

Da Sant Andrea”—anywhere it bled   130

From wounds, they vainly whined—“why stoop so low?

How did it profit you to make a screen

Of me? Your guilty life was not my blame.”

My Master stooped above it. “You that keen

Both blood and bitter tears, what was your name?”

It said to us: “O souls who come to see

The shameful damage that has stripped my leaves,

Gather them up and bring them back to me,

Heaped at these roots to comfort one who grieves.

My city once chose to set Mars aside   140

For John the Baptist as its patron. Thus

The scorned, discarded one will always guide

Its path to civil war, us against us:

And were it not that near our bridge still stands

A shard of his old statue, those who raised

The city once again from the black brands

And ash left when Attila’s wrath once blazed

Would have worked uselessly. I know. I made

My house my gibbet. Here, I am repaid.”

CANTO 14

Compelled by love of home, I gathered in

His scattered leaves for him, who spoke no word,

His voice gone. We moved out. Now I begin

To speak of where the Second and the Third

Zones meet, and where the fearful art is seen

Of Justice. To show clearly these new things,

I have to say we reached a plain swept clean

Of every plant, so that the dark wood rings

A desert, as the sad moat rings the wood.

Here, at the edge’s edge, we paused. The ground   10

Was dry, deep sand, as where once strode and stood

Cato in Africa, not to be bound

By Empire. Holy Vengeance, how you must

Be feared by all who read what now I saw!

Herd after herd of naked souls were just

Weeping the one lament, although the law

By which they suffered differed. Some lay flat

Face up, some sat knees high, and there were some

Who kept on moving. Those who moved like that

Were most in number but were largely dumb   20

Compared with those who lay in pain. Pain turned

Their tongues loose. Over that great stretch of sand

Slowly broad flakes of fire fell while they burned,

As snow falls in the mountains when not fanned

By any wind. Just as, in India,

When Alexander marched to that hot land

And saw his army, having come so far,

Assailed by falling flames that reached the ground

Unbroken, he told all his troops to tread

The soil free of those fires which had been found   30

To have, if not quenched, deadly fumes to spread,

Just so the eternal fire fell through the air,

Kindling the tinder sand like the flint’s spark

To multiply the pain. Hands, in despair,

Unsleeping in their dance, hit first that mark,

Now this, as if they hoped to beat away

The burning flakes. And I: “My Master, you

Who overcome all things that say us nay

Save stubborn imps who would not let us through

The gate, name me that great one there who seems   40

To think the fire means nothing, and in scorn

Lies scowling, as if these hot drops were dreams

That could not melt him.” He himself was torn

From his aloofness by what he’d heard said

By me about him. He cried: “What I was

When living, I am now when I am dead.

My fire within outdoes these flames, because,

Though Jove wear out the forge from which in rage

He seized the deadly bolt that skewered me

On that last day—though he should stage by stage   50

Wear down his crew to immobility—

At that black forge on Etna, shouting ‘Help,

Good Vulcan, help!’ as once on Phlegra’s field,

And try to shaft me with the victor’s yelp,

He’ll not have vengeance, for I will not yield.”

My Guide then spoke with force I had not heard

From him before. “Capaneus, your pride,

Undimmed, brings you worse punishment: absurd

Ravings like yours alone could match your tide

Of anger.” Then, with gentler look and word,   60

He turned to me again. “That was the king,

One of the seven kings, who once laid siege

To Thebes, and held God for a paltry thing

And still does, but to match his sacrilege

He has, as I just told him, his sad bleat.

Follow me now, and keep on walking near

The wood, or else the sand will scorch your feet.”

In silence we approached a point where—fear

Still makes me shudder—gushes forth a small

Red stream. The Bulicame rivulet   70

Shared by Viterbo’s harlots one and all

Is similar. So this creek’s course was set

Across the sand. Its bed and banks were stone

With footways alongside, from which I saw

The passage. “Of all things you have been shown,”

My Guide said, “since we entered by that door

Whose threshold is denied to none, you’ve seen

Nothing like this. This stream can cancel out

All of the flames above it.” These had been

My Leader’s words: but what were they about?   80

I begged him satisfy the appetite

He’d given me. “Out in the sea lies Crete,

A waste land which once bathed in perfect light

Under its king. Mount Ida was replete—

When Saturn ruled, although he ruled by fright—

With leaves and water, but is now bereft

Of both, worn out. Queen Rhea hid her child

For safety in the cradle of a cleft

And when he cried, she made the crowd go wild,

To block off Saturn and his murderous theft.   90

Inside the mountain sits a grand old man.

Back to Damietta, face to Rome, gaze fixed

As to his mirror: head of fine gold, span

Of chest and arms pure silver, brass betwixt

His breast and fork, choice iron from there down

Except for his right foot made of baked clay

On which most weight rests. And save for his crown

Of gold, there is no part not split asplay

By tracks of tears, which gather and descend

By force into that cavern there, and take   100

Their course from rock to rock unto this end.

They make the Acheron, the Styx, they make

The Phlegethon, and here, where they’re confined

To this tight channel and no further fall

Is possible, Cocytus forms. What kind

Of pond that is, you’ll see, so all in all

I’d rather skip that subject.” But then I:

“You say this stream flows from our world. But here,

And only here, is where we see it. Why?”

And he: “It’s not the trick it might appear.   110

You know this place is circular, and you,

Although you have come far, veer left always

As you go down, and have not yet turned through

A full rotation. Let it not amaze

You then, if we encounter something new:

No need to look stunned.” I again: “Where flow

The Phlegethon and Lethe? On the one

You’re silent, and the other—now I know—

Comes from this trough of tears.” He: “You have done

Me proud with all your questions, but the red   120

And boiling river should have solved the first.

Lethe you’ll see, when the repented dead,

Cleansed of the guilt with which they once were cursed,

May bathe themselves, but far beyond this pit.”

And then he said: “It’s time to leave the wood

Behind. You must keep close now. Look to it.

Untouched by falling fires, the only good

Paths are the margins. Any flame that nears

Dies in the rising mist of all these tears.”

CANTO 15

A hard edge bears us on, and vapour makes

A shield above out of the stream below

Which, with its banks, is free from fire. It takes

A dam to stem the sea. This, Flemings know,

Between Wissant and Bruges, where they fear

The flood’s rush; and the Paduans, beside

The Brenta, when the Chiarentana’s near

To full from melting snow. Both high and wide

Those bastions are built. These, not so much:

But still in the same fashion. We had got   10

So far out of the wood that we’d lost touch

With what it looked like—had I turned, I’d not

Have seen it—when we met a troop of shades

Walking beside the bank. As when the sun

Has set, but light is still there, though it fades,

And under the new moon men look at one

Another, so these looked at us, with tight

Eyebrows, as might a tailor in old age

Search for his needle’s eye. Held to the sight

Of this squad as I trod my narrow stage,   20

I had my hem gripped. “Marvellous!” a man cried,

And when he reached for me, I fixed my eyes

On his baked face, nor did those scarified

Features prevent that I should recognise

The man I named. “Master Brunetto. You?

You’re here?” And he to me: “My son, don’t be

Displeased if for a while I leave this crew

To their march while I turn and you keep me,

Your Brunetto Latini, close to hand.”

And I: “I wish for that with all my heart,   30

And I will sit with you, should you demand,

If he allows who’s led me from the start.”

“My son,” he said, “if any of this lot

Stops for an instant, for a hundred years

He lies unshielded from the fire. So not

A thought of pausing, lest it end in tears.

Go on, and I’ll be clinging to your skirt.

I’ll catch up later with my squad, who go

Forever mourning their eternal hurt.”

I dared not, from the bank, step down as low   40

As where he walked, but kept my head inclined

Like one who walks with reverence. Then he said:

“What chance decrees or destiny designs

That you should be down here when not yet dead,

And who is he that guides your steps?” “Up there

Where life is bright,” I said, “and my midway

In years not yet reached, yet I knew despair,

Lost in a valley. Only yesterday

At dawn I turned my back on it. But I

Would have returned, had he failed to appear   50

To lead me home by this road.” He said: “By

Your star, if always by your star you steer,

You can’t fail to make glorious harbour. Had

I sensed this rightly in your life so fair,

And not too soon died, seeing Heaven glad

To help you would have made me take more care

To aid your work. But that mean and malign

People who from Fiesole of old

Came down and still retain a certain sign

Of rocks and mountains—walls of Florence hold   60

The stones of that first hill—will make of you,

For your good works, their enemy. No chance

They won’t do that, for never will it do

If sweet figs, in the bitter circumstance

Of sorbs, should come to fruit. The world’s fame long

Has called them blind, half mad with envious greed,

And proud. So from this customary wrong

Get yourself clean. Your Fortune holds such seed

Of honour that both tribes will crave your flesh,

But as the saying goes, the goat and grass   70

Will be apart. Let those hill beasts make fresh

Food from themselves: if when they bare their arse

Above the dunghill any plant spring, let

Them leave it lie, for it might hold again

The holy seed of Romans, those who yet

Continued to grace Florence even when

It turned into a writhing vipers’ nest.”

“If all my prayers,” I answered, “were fulfilled,

You’d not yet have been banished from the rest

Of humankind. For in my mind, instilled   80

Immovably—and now it floods my heart—

Is the image, kind and fatherly, of you,

When many times you taught me by what art

A man becomes immortal: and what’s due

To you from me in gratitude, my tongue

Must, while I live, declare. What you tell me

I’ll note down, as I did when I was young,

And you spoke. And inside this scroll will be

What Farinata said, so both texts can

Be brought to one who, should I reach her, will   90

Know what they mean. But this much of my plan

I would make plain, to keep my conscience still.

What Fortune wishes, I am ready for.

Your forecast is not one I haven’t heard.

Let Fortune turn its wheel at will, and more:

Let the hick hack with his mattock.” This last word

Brought my Guide’s head back, turning to the right,

To look at me and say: “He listens well

Who takes notes.” None the less I took delight

In gossip with Brunetto, bade him tell   100

Which of his squadron had most fame and rank.

And he to me: “Of some it’s well to know,

Of others we do best to leave a blank,

For lack of time to say now, as we go,

So much. But, in a word; clerics they were,

And great, famed scholars; all of them defiled,

When living, by the one same sin. The slur

On that crowd touched the one you, as a child,

Learned Latin grammar from, famed Priscian,

And Francesco d’Accorso, who taught law.   110

And if you like scum you might see the man

Sent to Vicenza by the Pope, before

Florence should see his sin-worn nerves collapse:

Andrea de’ Mozzi. Bishop, in your youth.

There’s so much more to say. Not now, perhaps.

I can’t go further speaking the sad truth,

For see, a new cloud rises from the sand:

People I mustn’t meet will soon arrive.

My book, called Treasure, is at your command:

Read it. I ask no more. There, I’m alive.”   120

He turned then, and he ran like one of those

Who in Verona’s field race for the prize

Of green cloth. Like the first, the last man knows

He, too, will be marked out before all eyes.

But this one ran as if the race were his

To win, not lose. As his life was, and is.

CANTO 16

Already at the point where the long roar

Of water falling into the next loop

Was like the hum of beehives, I now saw

Three shades split at the run from their host group

And come towards us, each one shouting: “Stop!

You there whose clothing had its origin

In our degraded city!” Ah, the crop

Of wounds they bore, both old and new, burned in

By flames! Just to recall them grieves me still.

My Teacher listened to their cries, then turned   10

To me and said: “Let’s wait: to them we will

Do well to show respect. Though all is burned—

First on the surface, later through and through—

In this place by its nature, yet I’d say

Haste is less suitable to them than you.”

We stopped, and at their former quick pace they

Came on, and when they reached us, then all three

Made of themselves a wheel, in the same way

That wrestlers do, nude, oiled, and keen to see

Advantage for their grip, their dance a sign   20

Of thrusts and blows to come. And, wheeling so,

Each kept his face directed towards mine

Wherever in the circle he might go,

So that his neck moved always with his feet.

“If by the sadness of this sandy waste,”

Said one, “and by our aspect, seared by heat

To hairless blackness, we ourselves are placed,

Along with our petitions, in contempt,

May our fame sway you to incline your mind

To tell us who you are, that walk exempt   30

Through Hell. He that you see me tread behind

Was one, though he goes naked now and peeled,

Much grander than you think: grandson of good

Gualdrada, she who first raised high the shield

Of Conti Guidi. Be it understood

That he was Guido Guerra: both with blade

And wise words he did great things while he breathed.

The one who stirs the sand behind me made

Tegghiaio Aldobrandi a name wreathed

In laurels, and he would have done that more   40

Had what he said been heeded. As for me,

Put here with them to this cross, I, before,

Was Jacopo Rusticucci. Let it be

Made clear that nothing brought me half as much

Grief as my savage wife.” If there had been,

Down there among them, shelter from the touch

Of fire, I would have thrown myself between

Their bodies, and I think my Teacher might

Have stood for it, but fear soon left for dead

My goodwill: baked and burned as black as night—   50

Too ardent an embrace. So I just said:

“No, not contempt, but grief, fixed by your state

So deep into my mind it will be long

Before it leaves. I first felt its full weight

When my lord told me to expect a throng

Of men like you would be here. I am of

Your city, and your deeds and honoured names

Always I’ve heard and spoken of with love.

Leaving the gall, as I will leave these flames,

I go to the sweet fruits my truthful Guide   60

Has promised. But I first must go below

To the centre.” “That the soul may steer your stride

And fame shine after you,” said Jacopo,

“Tell us if courtesy and valour yet

Abide in Florence, or are they quite gone?

For Guglielmo Borsiere, whom we met

Quite recently—look there, where he goes on

In fellowship with us to share the pain—

Afflicts us with his words.” And then I cried:

“Florence! New men and lust for a quick gain   70

Drive you to mad excess and vaulting pride!

Already you’re in tears!” With straining face

Lifted towards my object of disdain

I yelled all this, and those three, who could trace

The course of my gaze, had their answer. Each

Looked at the others as men often stare

Who hear the truth. “If, any time, to teach

The facts leaves you so little cost to bear,”

They all replied, “then truly you are blessed,

Speaking as you desire. Therefore if you   80

Fly free from these dark realms of the possessed

And see the beauty of the stars anew,

Speak well of us.” The wheel was broken, then,

And legs in sand were nimble wings in air

So fast they flew. You couldn’t say “Amen”

And they were gone. My Guide thought we’d been there

For long enough. I followed him. We went

Only a little way before the sound

Of water would have drowned out what we meant

If we had tried to speak. As at one bound   90

That river called the Acquacheta, where

It flows high up, as first to hold its course,

Eastward from Monte Veso where you bear

Left on the Apennines, before, full force,

It roars over the cliff into the air

At San Benedetto dell’Alpe, down to burst

And find its lower bed at Forlì, fleeced

With foam again, and, having done its worst,

Changes its name, might well have leapt at least

A thousand times, there, down the cliff-like bank,   100

Dark water boomed, so, as the time increased

That we spent near it, our stunned ears grew blank.

The cord I wore with which I once had planned

To snare the leopard with the painted pelt,

I loosed completely at my Guide’s command,

And passed him what had been my hidden belt

Now coiled and knotted. He swung to the right

And flung it. Far out from the edge it went

And down into the deep pit of the night.

For the strange signal, something must be meant   110

To answer strangely, or the master’s eye

Would not so closely follow it. Men ought

To treat with caution those that clarify

The deed by seeing deep into the thought

That lies behind it. He to me: “Soon, now,

What I seek and you dream of will be brought

To light. It will come up. You’ll soon see how.”

About a truth that sounds just like a lie

A man should keep his mouth shut, if he can,

Since it will surely shame him by and by,   120

Though he be not at fault. But not this man,

Not here. I must speak. By the melodies

Of this my Comedy—may they not fail

Of lasting favour—reader, on my knees

I swear I saw swim upward through the stale

And murky air a figure, fit to stun

A stout heart, as that rising one returns

Who went down diving to get something done

About the anchor caught in the reef’s ferns

Or something else the sea hides. Coming near,   130

He stretches, draws his feet in. He is here.

Canto 17

“Behold the beast with pointed tail, the one

That breasts the mountains as he breaks through walls

And weapons! He’s the beast whose poison none

Escapes. He breathes, and soon the whole world falls

Into a fever.” Thus my Leader spoke

To me, while signalling the beast to come

Ashore beside where the stone causeway broke

Off short, and that foul image of the sum

Of all things fraudulent slid in to land

His head and chest, but left his tail out there   10

Free of the bank. His face bore not one brand

Beyond the stamp of justice: a fine air

Of grace he radiated. All the rest

Was serpentine: two paws, wrapped thick with hair

From wrist to armpit, and the back and breast

And both flanks decorated with rich knots

And peacock targets. Not Tartar or Turk

Ever made stuffs with colours in such lots

Within the weave or added on as work,

Nor did Arachne, spider woman, lay   20

Webs on her loom like these. As sometimes boats

Lie at the shore, part dry, part in the play

Of water, or the patient beaver floats

Its tail out from the bank to lure its prey

In Germany, where gluttons rule the roost,

So this vile brute lay on the rim that rings

The waste of sand with stone. Its tail was loosed

To roam the void, thus raising its twin stings,

The lethal scorpion-fork that armed its tip.

My Leader said: “Now we must seek the ledge   30

That leads to where that monster keeps its grip

On something solid.” Thus along the edge

Down to the right, we went ten paces, well

Away from sand and flames. We reached his head

And I saw people, where the sandbank fell

Away, who sat beyond. My Master said:

“That you may keep full knowledge of this zone,

See how they are, but let your talk be quick.

Meanwhile with this one I will speak alone:

We need his shoulders.” So I had to pick   40

My way all by myself along the rim

Of Level Seven to the place where those

Sad people sat. Pain filled them to the brim

And burst forth from their eyes, which could not close.

On either side their hands beat in defence

Now from the flames, now from the burning sand,

As dogs in summer fight the insolence

Of fleas and gnats and gadflies with a grand

And useless dart of snout or sweep of paw.

I looked at faces. Not a face I knew   50

As fire fell on them all: but then I saw

That each neck wore a pouch of certain hue

And coat of arms. They fixed their eyes on these

Once noble signs, and when I looked about

Among them, I saw various liveries:

Blue lion on purse yellow, I picked out,

And then, on purse blood-red, a goose bright white,

Whiter than butter. And a light blue sow

Expectant on white wallet hove in sight,

Whose owner said: “Why are you here and how,   60

In this death pit? Get out, and, since you live,

Know well that Vitaliano, from my town,

Will sit here on my left. They won’t forgive,

Those Florentines, that I dared to come down

From Padua. Often they pound my ears:

‘Let Buiamonte come, the sovereign knight

Whose pouch bears three goats!’ ” Thus our years

Of noble deeds end with a fool’s delight

In lending money. As he made a face

With twisted mouth and tongue stuck out to lick   70

His nose like a lost ox, I, lest disgrace

Should fall on me (I was already sick—

I should have kept it short), left this sad troop

To view my back, and went to find my Guide

Already mounted on the huge beast’s croup.

“Be strong and bold. From here on down, we ride

On flying stairs. Get up in front of me,”

He said, “so I can guard you from the tail.”

As one so near malaria’s ecstasy

Of shivering that his every fingernail   80

Turns blue, and at the merest sight of shade

He trembles head to foot, such I became

At these words, but a servant can be made

More staunch by a good master, for the shame.

And so, on those great shoulders, I got set,

Wishing to say, except no voice was there

To match the thought: “Now hold me! Don’t forget!”

But he that in another time took care

Of me, and in another danger, on

The spot embraced me. Ready for the air,   90

I heard his voice behind me: “Geryon!

Let’s move. And make your circles slow and wide

As we go down. Remember your new load.”

And as a small boat inch by inch will glide

Backwards from where it was, so was the mode

Of Geryon’s departure. Feeling free

At last, he gently turned, until his tail

Was where his breast had been. Then, finally,

He stretched the tail out. On a giant scale

It was an eel, and so it moved. His paws   100

Pulled in the air. I think no greater fear

Had Phaethon when his hands betrayed his cause

And dropped the reins, and so let the sun sear

The sky where we now see the Milky Way,

Nor Icarus, when he first felt his wings

Work loose because, too near the light of day,

The wax turned soft—the man who built the things,

His father, shouting “Wrong turn!”—than I knew,

When everywhere I looked was only air,

And all except the beast was lost to view.   110

Slowly he swims, as if with time to spare,

Slowly he wheels, and gradually descends,

But I think only of the wind I face—

And that wind from down there where the flight ends.

Now, on our right, the torrent shook the base

Of reason with its sobbing throb, whereat

I craned my neck and looked down. Then my fear

Increased of getting down from where I sat.

For I saw flames, and heard sad cries come near,

So that I shrank back trembling. Then I saw—   120

As not before—our circular descent

Against the background of a single law

Expressed in all the forms of discontent.

And as the falcon too long on the wing

Without a sight of lure or victim makes

The falconer cry: “Come on home, poor thing,”

And wearily starts down, and finds it takes

A hundred turns to get back to the spot

It left so swiftly, and lands in a sulk

And angry near its master, and yet not   130

All that near, Geryon, in his great bulk,

At last had set us down on the deep floor

Close to the jagged rock’s base. Then, set free

Of my weight, with no orders any more

From my Guide, like an arrow finally

Let loose to fly, he vanished instantly.

CANTO 18

Now, Malebolge is a place in Hell

All iron-coloured stone, just like the wall

That goes around it, and a wide, deep well

Gapes in the middle of its foul field. All

The workings of that pit I shall expound

In due course. But for now, let’s say the belt

Between it and the high rock bank is round,

With ten concentric valleys, each a welt

Sunk in the earth. As where moat after moat,

Guarding the castle, makes ring after ring   10

And scored ground shows a plan that we can note,

The general layout here was the same thing,

And as such forts have bridges from their gates

To the outer bank, so from the rock’s base run

Ridges from dyke to dyke to where awaits

The pit that cuts them short, providing one

Point of collection. Dropped by Geryon

From his back, there we were. My Leader held

Tight to the left, and I, behind, came on.

On our right hand, new kinds of anguish welled,   20

New torments, new tormentors: with this tide

The first ditch brimmed. The sinners on its floor

Were naked. They came facing us, this side

Of centre. On the other side, they bore

In our direction, but with longer stride,

Just as in Rome, the year of Jubilee,

The crowds of pilgrims on the bridge were split

So those on one side, as they crossed, could see

The Castle and were always facing it

As they approached St. Peter’s, while those on   30

The other walked towards the hill. But here

Along the sad rock they were set upon

On both sides by horned demons. From the rear

Each victim felt a huge whip at the task

Of cruel encouragement, and flicked his heels

At the first stroke. Nobody had to ask

For a second or a third, though such appeals

Would have been granted. As I went, my gaze

Was met by one of them. Quickly I said:

“I saw enough of him, once.” To appraise   40

Him further, I slowed down, and he who led

Allowed me to turn back a bit. And that

Afflicted soul believed he could conceal

Himself by lowering his face: but at

The vain attempt I said: “You just reveal

Yourself by doing that, for I still know,

Unless my eyes deceive me, the true face

Of Venedico Caccianemico.

But what brings you to this sour, pickled place,

So like the ditch where dead outlaws are thrown   50

Near your Bologna?” And he answered: “I

Say this with bad grace, but your speech so plain

Recalls the old world, so I must comply.

The Marquis d’Este got his chance to gain

Ghisolabella only with my aid.

Yes, I played pander with the helpless bait

Of my own sister. Thus the deal was made,

However now my countrymen relate

The vile tale. And I’m not the only soul

Once of Bologna now lamenting here:   60

This place is full of them. Not in the whole

City between two rivers are such sheer

Numbers of tongues that speak our dialect.

And if you want the proof, recall to mind

Our avaricious spirits, and reflect.”

And even as he spoke, hard from behind

A demon hit him with a whip, and cried:

“Go, pimp! There are no women here to trade!”

I joined my Escort, and, with him to guide,

Soon came to where a ridge formed an arcade   70

Out from the bank. We climbed up there with ease,

Turned right along the crags, and left that gang

To their perpetual circularities.

When we were at the dizzy overhang

Above the trench for those beneath the lash,

My Leader said: “Stop here. Take in the sight

Of yet another form of ill-born trash:

Faces you’ve not yet seen in the right light

Because they walked with us, and not towards.”

From the ancient bridge we watched them as they came   80

Towards us on the other side, the hordes

Lashed onward like the first lot, just the same.

My Poet said, unprompted: “It’s him! Look!

That great one, who weeps not, for all his pain,

Is Jason. Who by craft and courage took

The Golden Fleece from Colchis, the rich gain

Its men all lost. Lemnos he left behind,

Whose women, bold and callous, gave their men

To death, and where he played upon the mind

Of Hypsipyle with soft words and then   90

Again with trinkets, she who had beguiled

The other women when they wished to slay

Her father—and she, now, was left, stark wild

With grief and pregnant, as he sailed away.

This torment fits his guilt. Medea, too,

Is here avenged, for he gulled her as well.

And with him go all those deceivers who

Do likewise, and let this be all we tell

Of this first valley and those in its jaws.”

Now we were where the narrow pathway cuts   100

Across the second dyke and thus ensures

Support for the stone arch the dyke abuts.

Here we heard people moaning in the next

Crevasse. With snouts they snorted, while they slapped

Themselves with open hands. Their cruelly vexed

Exhaling grew a mouldy crust that wrapped

The banks, repellent to the eyes and nose,

The depth so hollow that it can’t be seen

Save when the arch’s crown is climbed, which lies

The furthest out above that sad ravine.   110

We went up there, and in the ditch below

Were people plunged in the cloacal slime

Of human privies, far too thick to flow,

And as I scanned the filth, taking due time,

I saw one with his head so fouled by shit

I couldn’t tell if it was shaved or not.

Layman or cleric? He cried: “Why is it

I catch your greedy eye more than this lot

Stuck in their slop?” My turn: “Because I know

That head. If I’m right, I’ve seen you before,   120

With clean hair. If you are Alessio

Interminei, that’s why I eyed you more

Than all the rest.” Then he beat on his crown

And cried: “See how my flatteries have cloyed,

That while I lived could never drag me down.”

And then my Guide: “Lean out into the void

A touch more, and you’ll get a better view

Of that foul rag-bag female horror’s face.

Squatting or standing, either of the two,

She always scratches some disgusting place   130

With filthy nails. Behold Thaïs, the whore,

Whose client asked if he was dear to her.

She flattered him (‘I couldn’t love you more’)

And made a clown out of a customer.”

We’ve seen that flattery is filthy stuff.

Let’s say for now that we have seen enough.

CANTO 19

Now, Simon Magus and his acolytes;

You wretches who for silver and for gold

Made strumpets of the things of God (by rights

The Brides of Righteousness); all you that sold

The priceless, now the trumpet sounds for you,

For you here, in the third pouch. We were now

At the next tomb, on that high part of the new

Rock ridge that hung above the ditch. But how,

Wisdom Supreme, how great the art you show

In perfect Heaven and on evil Earth,   10

How justly portioned out your power! So

I saw along the sides and in the girth

Of that grim ditch’s floor a livid stone

With holes in it, the holes all the one size

And each one round. One size and shape alone

Had all the fonts, it seemed to my fond eyes,

In my lovely church St. John, and one of those

I broke when helping someone out who would

Have drowned, and this I swear to, to foreclose

All further rumours that I meant no good.   20

From each hole’s mouth a sinner’s feet stuck out

And legs up to the calf: the rest inside.

All had both soles on fire. Joints thrashed about

With such force that a willow lashing tied

Around them would have snapped: a rope, the same.

As flame on oily things moves over just

The surface, so it was here with this flame,

Playing from heels to toes. “Master, I must

Know this,” I said. “That one who’s writhing there

More even than his fellows, who is he,   30

Licked by a redder fire?” “If you should care,”

He answered, “to be lifted up by me

And carried down by that more stony bank,

You’ll hear from him of who he is and what

He did.” And I: “All that to you whom I most thank

Is pleasing, suits me well. For I do not—

You know, my lord—depart from what you will.

Also you know what I don’t say.” Then we

Were on the fourth dyke, turned left, went downhill

To the pitted, narrow floor, and he set me   40

Down from his hip when finally we faced

The hole of him who with his shanks wept most.

“Whoever you may be who are so placed,”

I said, “sad soul, heels over head, a post

Well planted, speak now if you can.” Just as

The friar that shrives the sneaking killer, who,

The job done, calls him back and thereby has

Further delay before death, I stood, too,

And listened, as he cried: “Already here,

Boniface? Is it you that’s standing there   50

So early? Three years more, or pretty near,

The writing said you’d take to get here. Where

Was truth in that? So soon, you’re satisfied

With all you did not fear to take by guile

From Our Lady Beautiful and then bestride

Her prostrate holiness? So short a while

Your stolen splendour fed your hungry pride?”

Like those who stand as if they might be mocked

By some reply they don’t quite comprehend

And can’t reply themselves, they are so shocked,   60

So I became, and Virgil said: “Quick! Mend

His error. Say: ‘Be sure I am not he.

He isn’t here.’ ” As I was asked, I spoke,

At which the shade’s feet in their agony

Twisted together, and he sighed, and broke

Into a sob, and said: “What do you seek

With me, then? If to know my name concerns

You so much that you came down here to speak

With me direct, behold: here writhes and burns

A pope: the mighty mantle I once wore   70

As Nicholas III, although in truth

The she-bear sign was what I wore before—

A son of the Orsini. Our clan’s youth

Was my chief cause. The whelps brought out my worst.

For them I stacked my wealth. Here, I am stacked.

Below my head are others who went first

In simony, and, where the rock is cracked,

Are, through those fissures, now dragged down, squashed flat.

And down there I will go too, in my turn,

When he, for whom I so mistook you that   80

I asked a hasty question, comes to burn

At long last. Longer still, though, is the time

Already that I’ve been here upside down

With roasted feet than he, for his great crime,

Will spend with red feet, planted. Our same crown

Will fall to Clement, of yet fouler deeds.

He’ll be, that lawless shepherd from the west,

As bad as both of us. Just as one reads

In the Maccabees, of Jason and his best

Bid for the priesthood, which the king forgave,   90

Prepare for the new Jason, favoured by

The King of France to buy and sell the bread

Of life.” I can’t be positive that I

Was not too bold, when everything I said

In answer was as strict as this: “How much

Did Our Lord ask, pray tell, in treasure when

He gave the keys to Peter? Was there such

A thing as price? No, all that he asked then

Was ‘Follow me.’ Nor did Matthias pay

The others when he took the vacant place   100

Of Judas, self-condemned. So here you stay,

Well punished, pondering the long disgrace

Of what you charged for boldness in that plot

Against Charles of Anjou. And I should heap

Yet harsher words upon you, were it not

That reverence for the keys you got to keep

In the glad life forbade me. Lust for gain

Like yours saddens the world, tramples the good,

Exalts the wicked. You ruled in the brain,

Bad shepherds, of the one who understood   110

The Apocalypse, I mean the Evangelist

Who wrote of her that sits on water, seen

Committing fornication with a list

Of kings, that harlot who had been

Born with the seven heads, her strength obtained

From ten horns for so long as her bridegroom

Thought pleasure was a virtue. You thieves reigned,

Making a God of gold and silver. Room

Does not exist between the idolaters

And you, except they worship one, and you   120

A hundred. Constantine! You set the spurs

To evil, not by cleaving to your new

Religion, but by how, when you moved east,

You gave Sylvester, just to stay behind,

The Western Empire’s wealth.” He never ceased

While I sang him this song—whether his mind

Was chewed by anger or remorse—to kick

Out hard with both feet. I believe indeed

It pleased my Guide, who clearly could not pick

One fault of fact as I spoke. I could read   130

The pleasure in his eye. Then he took me

In both arms—I was lifted to his breast—

And up we went the way we came, and he

Tired not of holding me. Back to the crest

Of that arch from the fourth to the fifth dyke

He carried me clasped close. And then he set

Me gently down, for what that ridge was like:

Rugged and steep, rough as few goats have met—

And there beyond, another valley yet.

CANTO 20

It’s Book One, Canto Twenty. I must make

New matter and new verses from the pain

Of those in these depths, where the floor’s a lake

Of anguished tears I stare at tight with strain,

Seeing them come along the valley’s curve,

These silent people weeping, at the pace

Of worldly litanies. I needed nerve

Even to notice, there below each face,

The twist between the upper chest and chin.

The head faced the behind, and thus they came   10

Reversed, so as to see in front. If in

Some case of palsy it has been the same,

A man turned right around, I have not seen

Such things, nor do I think they can be true.

So God grant, reader, you yourself should glean

Fruit from your reading, and think how I knew

To keep dry cheeks when I saw from close by

The human form so twisted that its eyes

Could bathe with tears its rearward cleft. And I,

I wept indeed, held up in my surprise   20

By one rock of the ridge. My Escort said:

“You’re witless as the rest? Here pity dwells,

But only when it’s absolutely dead.

Who is more guilty than he who by spells

And mysteries makes it seem as if divine

Judgement were subject to his will? Raise, raise

Your head. The earth, like a collapsing mine,

Once opened up beneath this one, in days

Of old. The Thebans saw it, shouting: ‘Where

Do you rush off to, Amphiaraus,   30

Why do you quit the fight and take the air?’

A question he did not stay to discuss,

But plunged straight down till he was in the care

Of Minos, who looks after everyone.

See how his shoulders make a breast, he that

Would see so far ahead, and now is spun—

If he would reach what he is looking at—

Around to see behind while he goes back

Towards his front. And see the soothsayer

Tiresias, who gave two snakes a crack   40

With his staff, for their coupling. But they were

Revenged when all his features changed from male

To female. He, transformed in every part,

Must strike again those twined snakes without fail

Before he could resume his manly art.

And backed up to his paunch is Aruns. ‘Hail

Caesar!’ the entrails said: which came to be.

In the hills of Luni, where the ground is tilled

By those who come up from Carrara, he

Once had a cave, as if it had been drilled   50

Through the white marble, and from there his view

Of sea and stars was boundless. And look there

At her whose breasts have been concealed from you

By her long hair thrown back, and her short hair

Is also at the back. She is Manto,

Tiresias’s daughter. Many a land

She searched through. Finally she chose to go

Where I was born, and settle. Understand,

On this you should know some of what I know.

After her father died, Thebes had the brand   60

Of slave. She roamed the world for many years.

High up in Italy, in the foothills

Of the Alps that fence the Tyrol when it nears

The German lands, there Lake Benaco spills

A thousand springs—there could be more by far—

Of gathered rain that bathe the Apennines

From Garda south to Val Camonica,

And in the centre a sweet spot combines—

Or would combine, if they just went that way—

The blessings from all pastors out of Trent   70

And Brescia and Verona. To dismay

The Brescians and any army sent

From Bergamo, a strong and handsome fort,

Peschiera, at the low part of the shore,

Lies waiting, and there all that can’t stay caught

In the bosom of Benaco forth must pour

And then become a river, flowing down

Through green fields. Now its name is Mincio,

And on it runs as far down as the town

Called Governolo, and so to the Po:   80

And finally it finds a level, slows,

And spreads to make a marsh—in summer more

A bog that sometimes violates the nose.

Passing that way, the deadly virgin saw

Land in the fen, untilled, unpeopled. Keen

To shun all human concourse, there she stayed

With her assistants, which could only mean

She’d found the place to ply her arts. She laid

Her bones there. Afterwards, from all around,

The people gathered, for that spot was strong,   90

The bog on every side, and on that ground

And those dead bones that searched the world so long

They built the city, and from her who first

Picked out its place, they gave the place a name:

They called it Mantua, to slake all thirst

For augury. It rests upon her fame.

There used to be more people there, before

That prize dupe Casalodi let his clan

Be tricked away by Pinamonte. More,

Much more of how my city’s life began   100

There is to tell you, but for now, that much

Will serve to arm you against false reports.”

And I said: “Master, this account holds such

Assurance for me and so meets my thoughts,

All others would be embers. But now teach

Of these that pass. Of which ones have I read?

Such is the satisfaction I beseech.”

Then he: “The one whose beard contrives to spread

Across his swarthy shoulders from his cheeks,

Was augur for a Greece devoid of males   110

Even in cradles. Therefore his name speaks,

Along with that of Calchas, for the sails

Launched by the cable cut in Aulis. Yes,

Eurypylus, the very one. I sing

Of him in my high tragedy. But less

Of that now, for you know it, the whole thing.

That other one, so skimpy in the loins,

Was Michael Scot, named for his land of birth:

He knew the game of disappearing coins.

Guido Bonatti, whose star charts were worth   120

Their weight in gold, which his Duke gladly paid.

Asdente, toothless soothsayer. Said sooth

He’d sooner now have foregone, like his teeth,

And made more shoes, his trade, and only truth.

And see those wretched women stream beneath

Who gave up needle, shuttle, distaff, thread,

And turned to telling fortunes, brewing spells

With herbs and dolls. But come, for Cain’s white head

Of thorns now proves what no black art foretells—

With both the hemispheres confined, the waves   130

Below Seville shine silver, and last night

The moon was round. It’s certain your mind saves

The memory, which sometimes eased your plight

Deep in the wood.” And so, with much to say

Of lawful forecasts, we went on our way.

CANTO 21

From bridge to bridge, talking of other things

Of which my Comedy declines to sing,

We came to a high point: of all the rings

Of Malebolge, this was the next ring,

The next incision and the next vain tears,

And it looked strangely dark. The arsenal

Of Venice boils a pitch when winter nears,

Viscous, to caulk cracked ships and seal the hull.

In winter they can’t sail. Instead, by one

A new ship’s built, another plugs the ribs   10

Of his that often sails, and something’s done

To this prow with a hammer, and that jib’s

Patched up, and ropes are twisted, and a stern

Has some new post set upright while they stitch

A mainsail’s edge: just so, not from a churn

Of fire but by divine art, a thick pitch

Was boiling down there which stuck to the bank

On every side. I saw it, but in it

Saw only how the bubbles rose and sank,

Swollen by boiling, settling in the pit.   20

While fixedly I gazed down there, my Guide

Said “Watch out! Watch out!” drawing me to him

From where I stood. Then I turned to one side

Like someone keen to see what is so grim

He must escape it, and is unmanned quite

By sudden fear, and, even while he still

Keeps looking, does not think to stay his flight

Because that urge does not wait for his will,

And I saw, running up the ridge behind,

A black devil. How savage was that face!   30

How fierce his actions seemed to my stunned mind:

The open wings, the light tread, and in place

Around his shoulders, that were sharp and high,

A sinner sat, held firmly by the feet.

From our bridge the black goblin gave the cry:

“You, Evil-Claws, here is your chance to meet

A grand old man of Lucca’s ruling thieves.

You stick him under. I’ll go back for more.

That city teems with them, and each believes

In barratry as if graft were the law,   40

Except, of course, Bonturo, still deemed clean

Up there where cash may conjure Yes from No:

They call him straight, that bunch. What can they mean?”

The imp flung down his load and turned to go.

Having addressed an audience unseen,

He left the ridge of flint in greater haste

Than any mastiff sent after a thief.

The load went under, by the pitch embraced,

Then popped up doubled up, but no relief

Was offered by the imps we couldn’t see   50

Below the bridge. “The Holy Face,” they cried,

“Of your cathedral isn’t here to be

Your comfort, and the swimming in this tide

Is not your river Serchio. Unless

You want our hooks, stay down there in the pitch.”

A hundred probing gaffs helped to express

Their theme. “Dance under cover in the ditch,

And if you have to steal, steal out of sight.”

Just so, cooks make their scullions shove the meat

Down in the pot so it can’t come to light.   60

My Master then to me: “To keep discreet

Your presence here, crouch down behind a rock

For shelter, and from outrage offered me

By anyone, you should not suffer shock.

I’ve seen these things. It’s not a novelty.”

He went on past the bridgehead, and when he

Came on to the sixth bank he soon had need

To show a firm front. With the spitting hate

And uproar of a pack of dogs that speed

From out of nowhere so the beggar’s state   70

Of trance is not enough and he must plead,

These rushed out from beneath the bridge and drew

Their hooks on him. But he cried: “Let there be

No foolery from any one of you!

Before you catch me with a fork, let’s see

Just one of you come forward that will hear

From me: and then decide what’s to be done

About me and those hooks.” Though they were near

They stopped, and cried: “Let Bobtail be the one.”

So while the rest stood still, one moved. “What good,”   80

We heard him say, “will this do him?” My Guide:

“You think, Bobtail, somehow I safely could

Have come this far through everything your side

Could throw against me and not have the aid

Of God’s Will and propitious fate? Now let

Us pass, for the decision has been made

Above, that I show one you haven’t met

The savage path.” Less insolent, the imp

Let fall his fork to clatter at his hooves

And told the rest of them, his voice gone limp:   90

“He can’t be touched.” My Guide: “I think that proves—

You that sit crouching in the rocks somewhere—

If you come back to me, you will be safe.”

At which I rose, and, with no time to spare

I joined him, as I watched the devils chafe

At being still, a state they cannot bear.

They came on, at a clip that made me fear

They might not keep their promise. Thus, one time,

I saw troops less than eager to appear

Among their enemies. They feared a crime   100

As they, out of Caprona, moved unarmed,

Protected only by a guarantee.

Similarly afraid of being harmed

I pressed close to my Guide. All I could see

Was how they looked, which wasn’t good, while they

Levelled their prongs, one saying “Shall I touch

Him on the rump?” I heard another say

“Sure, let him have it.” But this seemed too much

For my Guide’s interlocutor, who swept

Sharply around and said “Hold, Ragtag, hold!”   110

Then he to us: “To keep the path you’ve kept

By this ridge is impossible. The old

Sixth archway fell, and lies in bits below.

But if it is your pleasure to go on,

Go on along the rocky dyke: not so

Far off from here there is another ridge

Which grants a passage. Trust me. The time nears:

Five hours from now, minus one day, the bridge

Has lain there broken for twelve hundred years

And sixty-six more, when the world entire   120

Was shaken by one passion on one hill.

Some of this company goes to enquire

At my behest, if there be those who will

Be out to take the air. Go with them. None

Among them will molest you. Forward now,

Scumbag and Scallywag. Go, get it done.

And you, Dirtbag. And you can show them how

To do it, Tanglebeard. Let you go too,

Dogbreath and Blatherskite, and you, Pigface

With useful tusks, and Hairball, let’s have you,   130

And Guttersnipe, and Snotnose. Search the place:

Check on the boiling tar, and let these through

Safely as far as the next ridge that goes

Intact across the ditches all the way.”

I said: “My Master, what I see, who knows?

If you know how to get there, let us, pray,

Go there alone. An escort we don’t need

And if we did, as cautious as you are,

Would you pick troops of this peculiar breed?

See how they grind their teeth and threaten far   140

More mischief for us yet with how they knit

Their brows.” And he to me: “It is the lot

Of those down there, how they can worsen it,

That makes them fierce: so you need fear them not.

Just let them grind, and dodge the chips they spit.”

Before they marched away on their new route,

Around the dyke there on the left they wheeled,

Poking their tongues out in a long salute—

A tribute to their captain in the field.

He turned, bent down, and as he watched them pass   150

He hailed them with the trumpet of his arse.

CANTO 22

I have seen horsemen ride, before today:

They moved camp, they rode out to the attack,

They mustered up, and sometimes rode away

Flat out in flight and they did not come back.

So, Aretines, I’ve seen scouts on your land,

And raiding parties ride, and seen the clash

Of tournaments and running jousts, a band

Of trumpets here, bells there, and then the smash

Of drums, and signals from the castle walls,

Flags that I knew, flags that were new to me—   10

But never horsemen moving to the calls

Of such a strange horn, no, nor infantry,

Nor ship that sailed by landmark or by star.

With these ten demons, savage entourage

Indeed, we went: but you know how things are—

Pray with the saints, drink with the sots. At large

My gaze roamed on the layout of the moat,

Each detail of the pitch, and all who burned.

Like dolphins when they signal men afloat

To save the ship by how their backs are turned   20

Above the wave tops, and the men take note,

So, now and then, a sinner would arch high

His spine to ease the pain, then hide again,

As quick as lightning. And as frogs will lie

Still in the ditch of water’s edge or fen,

With just their muzzles out, the bulk of their

Fat bodies out of sight, not just their feet,

Just so the sinners, noses in the air,

Were otherwise unseen, but full retreat

Came only when foul Tanglebeard trod near,   30

And down they went beneath the boiling black.

I saw—and still my heart skips from the fear—

As when the frogs all dive yet one holds back,

One lingering soul, and Dogbreath, from close to,

Hooked him by his tarred hair and pulled him out

Just like an otter. I already knew

The names of all the imps, from the first shout

When they were chosen, and from what they’d called

Each other since. “Dogbreath, make sure you get

Your prongs right in there. Get some skin!” they bawled   40

In unison, those damned beasts, and worse yet.

“Master,” I said, “please tell me, if you can,

Who this poor wretch is, helpless in the hands

Of enemies.” My Leader asked the man,

Who said this: “In that loveliest of lands

The Kingdom of Navarre, there I was born.

My mother put me out to serve a lord,

For she had borne me to a wastrel, sworn

Foe to himself, who reaped his just reward:

Insolvency. The household of good King   50

Thibault was home to me, and there I gave

Myself to barratry. The reckoning

I pay in the thick heat of this black grave.”

And then Pigface, his mouth armed like a boar’s

With twin tusks, stuck one into him and ripped.

One mouse and many cats, their wicked paws—

For Tanglebeard now held him firmly gripped

And said: “Stand back and let me have him.” Then:

“Ask him,” this to my Guide, “if you would learn

More from him, before he gets shredded when   60

Another of my soldiers takes his turn.”

Therefore my Leader said: “Tell us of those

Others beneath the pitch. Are any there

Italian?” He: “Just now, from one that knows

Them well, I parted. Now I’d like to share

That black redoubt with him again, no threat

From claw and hook.” And Slimeball said: “That’s it!

We’ve had enough!” and gaffed his arm to get

A muscle free to take like a titbit,

As Guttersnipe aimed low between the legs,   70

Whereat their captain with an ugly look

Wheeled on them all, so even they, the dregs,

Looked almost as if they’d been brought to book,

At which my Master quickly asked the man

Who still gazed at his wound: “But who is he,

The one you parted from—as you began

To say—so as to land unluckily

On this shore?” And he answered: “It was Fra

Gomita, from Gallura, of all fraud,

In each department, the undoubted star:   80

Within his grasp, the worst foes of his lord

Were so adroitly managed even they

Spoke well of him. He said: ‘I took the cash

And they went quietly.’ In every way,

In all affairs, no fuss, and nothing flash.

No petty crook, he was a sovereign cheat.

Don Michael Zanche keeps him company.

The Don’s from Logodoro, so they meet

On common ground to talk incessantly

About Sardinia. I could say more   90

But look at that one grind his teeth! I fear

He wants to scratch my scurf and make it sore.”

Their general turned to Slimeball, standing near

With rolling eyes and poised all set to strike.

“Get out of here,” he ordered, “dirty bird!”

“If,” said the frightened spirit, “you would like

To see or hear of those from Tuscany

Or Lombardy, I’ll bring some here: but get

These Evil-Claws to stand back, lest they be

A source of fear to those who come. Now let   100

Me stand alone and whistle from this spot,

And I, just one, will summon seven. So

Our custom goes when one among our lot

Gets out.” And Dirtbag’s cruel face answered no,

With lifted snout and shaking head. Aloud

He said: “This is a trick of his, to throw

Himself down.” At which he so well endowed

With stratagems said: “Yes, I am indeed

A trickster, making trouble for my friends.”

But Dirtbag, though the rest paid the man heed,   110

Could not hold back, and threatened: “This truce ends

If you go down. I will come after you

Not galloping, but beating with my wings

Across the pitch. Now what we ought to do

Is get down off this peak and settle things

Against the dyke. We’ll see if, on your own,

You more than match us.” Reader, listen now

To news of a new sport. He stood alone

With all the demons watching to see how

He might jump, and the foremost was the one   120

Who’d been the least persuaded. From their dyke

They watched him. But as he had always done,

Man of Navarre, he chose his time to strike.

Planting his feet, he made a sudden leap

And left the marshal standing. They were all

Consumed with self-reproach, but none could keep

His anguish hidden less than he whose call

To let the quarry jump had wrecked the game.

So he went first, and cried “You’re caught!” to no

Avail, for wings, though quick, are not the same   130

As terror. Down the prey went, and just so

The hunter went up with his lifted breast,

As instantly the wild duck goes below

And the falcon, vexed at having done its best

Without result, climbs back where it began,

With broken spirits. Guttersnipe, annoyed

At being tricked but keen to hunt a man—

The disappointment left him overjoyed—

Flew after him, and when he disappeared,

Turned on Dogbreath, right there above the ditch,   140

And clawed him, but hawk’s claws are to be feared,

And this hawk was full grown. Into the pitch

They fell together. Bubbling heat soon seared

Them free from one another, but they stayed

Stuck in the glue that had weighed down their wings,

Till Tanglebeard, sad as the others, made

Four of them fly, across the taint that clings,

To the far bank, and each with practised haste,

Armed with his fork, as if this were a drill,

Came in to land and was correctly placed   150

On this side or on that. Then, to fulfil

The task, they pushed their gaffs out to the pair

Baked in their crust. We left them cooking there.

CANTO 23

Wordless, alone, without an escort, we

Went on. One walked behind the one ahead

As minor friars do. Insistently

My thoughts were driven by these scenes of dread

To Aesop’s fable of the frog that tricked

The mouse into the stream and dived to drown

The mouse but when the mouse splashed the kite picked

The frog for its next meal and hurried down,

And both tales, for what happened at the start

And end, were just the same, the one aligned   10

With the other, and fear doubled in my heart

Just as the stories echoed in my mind.

It is by us, I thought, that they are fooled:

By injury and insult they are vexed.

Add anger to ill will and they are ruled

By double passion to make us their next

Objective, as if they, more savage still

Than any dog, snapped at the leveret.

Already my hair bristled at the thrill

Of fear, and so I stood with my stare set   20

Intently back, and said “Master, unless

You quickly hide us both, I am afraid

The Evil-Claws will catch us. I confess

I hear them make again the noise they made

When they thrived on a fugitive’s distress.”

And he: “Were I a mirror, I could not

Receive your outer image sooner than

Your inward now. Your thoughts make common lot

With mine in guise and action, so one plan

I make of both. If that slope on the right   30

Leads down into the next ditch after this,

We’ll slip the hunt that haunts you in your fright.”

His plan acquired an urgent emphasis

While he was still explaining it, for here

They came, with outstretched wings. They were intent

On taking us, and they were very near.

My Master took one look at them and bent

To pick me up, just as a mother would

Who wakes to hear the noise and see the fire

And picks the child up, thinking of its good   40

Above hers, as she flees, with no attire,

Even a shift, because time equals hope.

Down from the stone high ridge, flat on his back,

He let himself slide on the rocky slope

This side of the next ditch. At such a crack

Never ran water coursing through a sluice

To turn a mill wheel nearest to the blades

As my Guide did when he went fast and loose

Down that steep bank, and through the dry cascades

He bore me on his breast more as a child   50

Than a companion. Hardly had his feet

Touched down on the deep bedrock when that wild

Platoon was on the height above, to meet

Their fate made manifest, for the same high

Authority which gives them wings to guard

The fifth ditch has decreed they shall not fly

Beyond it. They knew that, but took it hard.

We found a painted people, there below,

Who circulated looking tired and sad.

They seemed defeated and their steps were slow.   60

In cloaks with cowl drawn forward they were clad

To hide their weeping eyes: cloaks of the kind

That Cluny monks wear, but these shone with gold,

As if to dazzle they had been designed.

Within, though, they were lead in every fold,

So heavy that those Frederick liked to see

Wrapped melting around traitors were mere straw.

A tiresome mantle for eternity!

We turned, still going left just as before,

Along with them, as they, preoccupied   70

With weeping, went, but, weary with their load,

They had to go so slowly, every stride

Of ours along that populated road

Brought us new company. Therefore I said

To my wise Leader: “Can’t we, as we go,

Find someone among all these walking dead

Whose deeds we’ve heard of or whose name we know?”

And one caught by my Tuscan accent called

Out after us: “Slow down and get some rest!

You that so hasten through this air appalled   80

With dusk, perhaps you’ll get what you request

From me.” At which my Leader said “Let’s wait,

And go on at his pace.” I stopped, and saw

A couple who seemed in the mental state

To join us quickly, but their bodies bore

That load, and it was crowded on the way.

When they came up, each of them gazed awhile

Sideways at me and silent, and then they

Spoke to each other: “This one has the style

Of the alive. The workings of his throat—   90

A sure sign. And if both of them are dead,

By what rare privilege are they free to walk

Thus unencumbered by the cloak of lead?”

And then to me: “Tuscan, we know your talk.

You that have come to where the hypocrites

Assemble their sad faces, tired and worn

From faking a sincerity that fits

Their story, tell us yours. Where were you born?”

And I to them: “Where the fair Arno flows,

In that great city I was born and raised.   100

My soul is still contained in what it knows:

This body, mine from birth. Be not amazed,

But tell me who you are, for whom such pain

Distils itself and dribbles down each cheek.

What penalties drench you in golden rain?”

“So heavy you can hear each balance creak,

These yellow cloaks are lead,” one answered me,

“One Guelph, one Ghibelline, we are the two

Jovial Friars of Bergamo. You see

The saviours of your city facing you—   110

I, Catalano: Loderingo he—

Both chosen by your council to bring peace

Where once one man alone fulfilled that role,

And the Gardingo district won’t soon cease

To say how well we did it, on the whole.”

Thinking of what they stole and where once stood

The Uberti palace, “Friars, your mad pride . . .”

I said, but said no more of what I would,

For then I saw one lying crucified

By three stakes in the ground. He saw me there,   120

And writhed all over, blowing on his beard

With sighs, and Catalano saw me stare,

And said: “That one who lies there, three times speared,

Is Caiaphas, who told the Pharisees

One man should do a people’s suffering.

Stretched naked on the crowded pathway, he’s

Well placed to feel the weight of everything

That comes along, as you can see. The same

For Annas—in this ditch put to the rack—

His mother’s father, and for every name   130

On that black list to which the Jews trace back

Their troubles. Yes, I mean the Sanhedrin.”

Then I saw Virgil standing there nonplussed

Above the one stretched vilely crosswise in

Eternal exile. “What you have discussed,”

He told the Friar, “for me is far from clear.

But if you are allowed, and if you please,

You’ll tell us whether some way out of here

Lies near us on the right, so we may seize

Our chance to leave without a plea for aid   140

From black angels, that they may come to lift

Us up and fly us out.” The Friar made

The following reply: “You were adrift

In all your estimates. Help is nearby,

Much closer than you hope. From the great wall

A ridge runs inward cutting through the sky

Of every valley so it links them all,

Except that, at this one, it lies a wreck.

You climb the ruins piled against the side,

A staircase starting level with this deck.”   150

My Leader stood with bent head, mortified.

“The one that hooks the sinners over there

Sold us a bill of goods,” he said, whereat

The Friar grinned. “Yes, wasn’t that unfair?

I think I once heard, in Bologna, that

The Devil sometimes has resort to vice.

He has been known to say what isn’t true.

I’ve heard he isn’t really very nice.”

My Leader strode on. As his anger grew,

His stride grew greater. Led by his sweet heels,   160

I left the souls who weigh the way guilt feels.

CANTO 24

In that part of the young year when the sun

Enters Aquarius to comb the hair

It shakes loose, and the long nights have begun

To turn south; when the frost is lying there,

A copy of its sister, the pure snow—

Except the pen’s point soon grows blunt, the white

Is warmed away, and he, the shepherd, so

Annoyed when he woke up to the chill sight

Of snowy fields and thought he could not go

For fodder, slapped his thigh, and back inside   10

His house went to and fro to curse his fate

Like some poor wretch with doubt in every stride

Of what to do next, but the altered state

Strikes him when he goes out again, the rime

Has melted, the whole world has changed its face

And hope returned in such a little time,

He grasps his staff and out into the place

That shines no longer white he drives his sheep

To pasture. Thus my Master hurt my heart

Because his brow was clenched and furrowed deep,   20

But then the poultice came to soothe the smart,

For when we reached the ruined bridge, right then

He turned to me with that sweet smile I’d seen

When first I saw the mountain’s foot, and when

He’d made a plan and picked the ruins clean

With his glance, he spread wide his arms for me

And held me, and as one who works and weighs

And reckons and provides beforehand, he,

While lifting me to one rock, bent his gaze

Upon another’s suitability   30

To make its top a step. “Take that one there.

But first,” he said, “see if it takes your weight.”

A mantle here was not the thing to wear.

Though he was light and I was pushed, a great

Effort was needed going crag to crag,

And if the slope had been long on that dyke

As on the other, he’d have seen me flag.

For him, I don’t know what that climb was like.

Since all of Malebolge dips towards

The inmost pit, the lie of every trench   40

Makes one side low. Where the last stone affords

A broken-off arrival point, this bench

I sat on with lungs bursting through my chest

From pain, and thought: No further. “Now you must,”

My Guide said, “quell the slothful urge to rest.

A swansdown seat and a soft blanket just

Keep you from fame, without which no one who

Consumes his life leaves more trace in the world

Than smoke in air and foam on water do.

Therefore arise, with your soul’s flag unfurled   50

Above your fear, for so your soul prevails

In every battle if the body’s weight

Can’t sink it, and your enterprise entails

A longer stair yet, to a higher state.

Just to have left these spirits here is not

Sufficient. If you understand me now,

Do what you must, get more than you have got.”

I rose then, trying hard as I knew how

To prove my breath was easy, and said “Go,

For I am strong and brave.” We took our way   60

Up through the jagged narrows, twisted, slow,

Of this ridge steeper than the last. To stay

Alert, or seem to, I talked as we went,

At which a voice from the next ditch was heard,

Unable to say clearly what it meant.

But I, up on the transverse arch’s crown

Already, knew that anger moved his speech.

Over the dark I bent my keen gaze down.

The dark went down too far for eyes to reach

The bottom. So I questioned: “What if we   70

Go on to the next bank and down its wall?

Because from here my hearing’s doomed to be

One long misunderstanding, and for all

I see when I look down, there’s nothing there.”

“My one reply,” my Guide said, “is to do

What you suggest. The answer to a fair

Request should be the silent deed.” We two

Descended at the bridge’s end, which meets

The eighth bank, and from there the ditch was clear

To my view, and the memory defeats   80

My words, and chills my blood with coiling fear.

I saw a writhing mass of every kind

Of serpent, and each kind was very strange.

Lucan in Libya could never find

Their equal in those hot sands to arrange

His catalogue of snakes to seize the mind,

Including those with one head at each end.

No, desert lands have no plagues on this scale

For poisoned multiplicity. Nor send

To Ethiopia to see the like, nor sail   90

The Red Sea, searching all its regions. These,

For cruelty and squalor, were as bad

As snakes can get. And through this heaving sleaze,

Ran people naked, terrified, who had

No hope of hiding place or to be made

Invisible by heliotrope. Their hands

Were tied behind with snakes, which slickly laid

Their heads and tails between the thighs, leg bands

Knotted in front. And look, a serpent sprang

On one who shared our bank, and hit the point   100

Where neck meets shoulder, and the serpent’s fang

Started a fire, precisely at the joint,

Which spread as fast as you write I or O

With just one stroke, until he sank to ash,

And on the ground the dust reversed its flow,

Gathered itself together in a flash:

He was himself again. So they concur,

All the great sages, that the Phoenix dies,

And straight away is born again, in her

Five hundredth year, and in that time denies   110

Herself all herbs and grain. All she will eat

Is tears of frankincense and balsam, and

Spikenards and myrrh supply her winding sheet.

And just as one who can no longer stand—

But falls not knowing if the devil’s force

Has dragged him down, or else some vital block

That binds a man, has been the secret source

Of weakness—when he rises, stares in shock

Around him, rattled by his pain, and sighs,

Such was this sinner when he rose again.   120

How stern the power of God, that can devise

Such and so many blows for vengeance! Then

My Leader asked him who he was. I quote:

“From Tuscany I came down like the rain

Not long ago into this feral throat.

A mule I was, a brute I would remain:

A man’s life didn’t please me in the least.

I started as a bastard, led the Blacks

In my town. Vanni Fucci, called the Beast,

Is my name. If you go back on my tracks,   130

You’ll reach my den, Pistoia.” Then I said

To my Guide, “Tell him not to slip away,

And ask him what crime weighed so on his head

To thrust him down this far, for the display

I saw was of a man of rage and blood.”

The sinner heard, and did not feign, but set

His mind and look on me, his face a flood

Of shame. He said “I feel more anguish yet

That you have caught me in the misery

You see me in, than I felt then, when I   140

Was taken from the other life. For me

To leave your question without due reply

Is not allowed. Down this far I am brought

Because once, in the Sacristy of Fine

Adornments, when I stole, I had the thought

Of pinning that crime blasphemously mine

On someone innocent. Such was my sport.

So now you know. But lest my pain has been

Too sweet a sight, if ever you get out

Of these dark regions, add to what you’ve seen   150

The sound of what I say. Be in no doubt—

I speak to you, the White Guelph Florentine—

These things will happen. First, Pistoia will

Thin out the Blacks. Then Florence will revive

Her people and her ways. Mars will fulfil

His role for her, and find a Black to strive—

From Val di Magra he will ride to kill—

Against Pistoia’s Whites. Nicknamed the Mist,

He’ll bring sad clouds with him, a bitter storm

Of battle in Piceno’s field. The list   160

Of horrors will grow long, and the fierce form

Of flame in a black sky touch every White.

I tell you this to haunt you in the night.”

CANTO 25

The thief raised both his hands when he said this,

Two fingers up from each, the figs: and cried

“You get it, God? You know what you can kiss?”

From then on, all the snakes were on my side,

For one looped round his neck, as if to say

“You’ve said enough.” Another, as before,

Bound up his arms and in its usual way

Attached itself in front so he no more

Could make a move that brought them into play.

Pistoia, ah, Pistoia! Why not vow   10

To burn yourself to ashes and live on

No wicked moment more than you do now,

You that are worse than your bad seed long gone,

Colleagues of Cataline? Through all of Hell,

Its darkest circles, I saw not one shade

So arrogant, not even he that fell

At Thebes, Capaneus. So this one made

His exit, speaking not another word.

A raging centaur came past on parade.

His shout was of the pitch that peaks and breaks:   20

“Where is he, then, the crook?” I have not heard

Even Maremma has so many snakes

As he had on his croup as high as where

The horse form sleeps and human form awakes.

Behind his shoulders, high up near the hair,

A dragon spread its wings and set on fire—

Sending its breath down while it stayed up there—

Whomever it might meet. My Master said

“That’s Cacus, who beneath the Aventine

Made many times a bloodbath for the dead,   30

And from his brothers takes a different line,

Another road, because he stole by fraud

A nearby herd and lured it to his cave.

The herd belonged to Hercules, his lord,

Who heard the cattle lowing, and so gave

Cacus, to end his mean streak at a stroke,

A lesson with his club. A hundred blows.

Not ten were felt.” But while my Leader spoke,

The centaur had gone by and there arose

Three shades beneath us that we didn’t see   40

Till they said “Who are you?” At which we ceased

To speak, our thoughts on them entirely.

I didn’t know them, but by chance—increased

By time—one had to name another. “Where,”

One of them asked, “has Cianfa stopped?” That said,

To keep my Guide’s attention focused there,

I held my finger upright so it led,

Touching, from chin to nose. If you are slow

To credit, reader, what I tell you now,

No wonder. I, who saw it to be so,   50

Scarcely believe it still. But this is how

It happened. While I kept the three in view,

A serpent with six legs ran up in front

Of one of them and stuck to him like glue

All over, so he bore this sudden brunt.

His paunch was seized on by the middle feet,

His arms by the front ones, while through his face

Fangs piercing either cheek were keen to meet.

His thighs were where the hind feet found their place,

And in between his thighs the tail was poked   60

And stretched up over his behind. No tree

Was ever yet with ivy tighter cloaked

Than this shade with the beast’s disgustingly

Adapting limbs that hid the limbs they choked.

And then, as if they both were hot wax, they

Stuck to each other in a dreadful blend:

Their colours mingled and went either way

So both were one, with neither start nor end,

And how they looked before, you couldn’t say

From seeing what they had become. Just so,   70

Across the paper, close before the flame,

We see a kind of coloured darkness go,

Not black yet, but the white dies just the same.

The other two looked on, and each cried “My,

Agnello, how you’ve changed! You are not two,

You are not one!” For once they didn’t lie:

Two heads were one, one face shared, in plain view,

Only what two had not lost, and one pair

Of arms was made from four arms, and two thighs,

One belly and one chest were strangely there—   80

Shapes never seen before. When what had been

Was blotted out, all former features gone,

The gross deformity that seemed to mean

Two things but nothing clear, slowly moved on—

Still neither here nor there, but in between.

As does the lizard in the worst dog days

Seem lightning when it streaks from hedge to hedge

To someone trudging under the sun’s blaze,

So suddenly appeared from our view’s edge

A small and fiery vivid serpent, black   90

As peppercorn. Its path seemed set to strike

The bellies of the other two. Its track

Soon fixed on one, and by its navel—like

Our own part for receiving nourishment

When in the womb—it stuck to him, and then

Fell down before him and stretched out. Intent

On what had struck him, he, the stricken, when

He stared, said nothing. Silent, he stood still

And yawned, as if by sleep or fever sapped

Of understanding, energy and will.   100

He and the serpent eyed each other, wrapped

In one another’s gaze and also in

The smoke that from the beast’s mouth in a jet

Came pouring out to mingle with its twin

That poured from the man’s mouth, so their smoke met.

Let Lucan now be silent when he prates

About Sabellus and Nasidius,

Snake-bitten soldiers. Better that he waits

To hear of this. The same for Ovid, who

Tells us how Cadmus turned into a snake   110

And Arethusa, fleeing nymph, changed too,

Into a fountain. True it is I take

No umbrage: Ovid doesn’t once transmute

Two natures face to face as they exchange

Their substance. By an impulse more acute

These two were moved, the one to rearrange

Its tail into a fork, the wounded one

To blend its feet, the thighs together pressed

So close that soon the joinery was done

With no mark left by which you could have guessed   120

At separateness. And then the serpent’s tail,

Divided as it was now, took the shape

Of human legs. Its skin turned soft and frail

While the other’s hardened. Armpits were agape

To take in shrinking arms. The beast’s front paws

That had been short, grew long to match the pace

Of shrinkage, and the hind paws, with their claws,

Twisted together, made the part men place

Away from view. His part, unbound by laws,

Put forth a pair of feet. While smoke involved   130

Them both with novel colours and supplied

More hair here, and yet there the hair dissolved,

One rose, one fell, but neither turned aside

The baleful gaze beneath which each had gained

The other’s looks. He that was now upright

Lifted his face towards his temples, strained

The skin till it expelled, from being tight,

The excess matter that would form the ears

From both cheeks, and then, from the stuff still left,

There grew, as if the seconds now were years,   140

A nose, and from the mouth, that lipless cleft,

Lips of due size appeared. He that lay flat

Advanced his snout, and then the ears slid back

Into his head like snail’s horns, and then that

Which spoke for him, his tongue, began to crack

And split in two. The other thing’s tongue, split

Already, unified. Smoke ceased to flow.

The shade turned brute fled hissing in a fit

Along the ditch, the talking one not slow

To follow, nor to aim the human spit   150

That snakes don’t like. But then he turned his new

Shoulders on that one and said to the third,

The one unchanged: “I would have Buoso do

What I have done, and do it word for word:

Run on all fours along this very road.”

The dross of Level Eight I had now seen,

The dregs, the ship’s least valuable load,

Had seen it change and interchange, and mean

One thing and then another. Should my pen

Fail in its task, let newness be my plea:   160

And if my eyes were getting tired by then,

My wits confused, still it was clear to me

That though they fled in secret, these two were

Puccio the Cripple, sole one of the three

Companions privileged never to incur

The agony of being thus reborn,

And he who brought to you the sword and spur,

Gaville, trading his wrath for your scorn—

Francesco Cavalcanti, name to mourn.

CANTO 26

Florence, rejoice! For you are grown so great

Your wings beat proudly over land and sea,

And even Hell proclaims your rich estate,

Speaking your name abroad, your destiny.

Among your citizens, I’d just found five

To shame me that I shared their place of birth.

Their skill at theft when they were still alive

Brought you no honour. What their schemes were worth

You’ll find, if near the dawn our dreams come true,

When Prato rises up against your greed,   10

A craving felt by other places too:

The sooner done the better, and indeed

Done years ago it had been overdue—

It must be done, or it will weigh the more

On me as I grow older. We moved, then,

And on the stairs the rocks had made before

For our descent, my Leader climbed again

And drew me up. We went the winding way

Among the rocks and splinters, and the foot

Made no advance without the hand in play.   20

I grieved then and I grieve now when I put

My mind to what I saw, and I rein in

My powers more than usual, lest they run

Where virtue guides them not, and I begin

To curse the gift my lucky star, or one

Yet higher, gave me. Count the fireflies

The peasant sees when he rests on the hill—

In the season when the one who lights our eyes,

And all the world, least hides its face, and will

Soon sink to give the fly’s place to the gnat—   30

The lights he sees along the valley floor

Might well be glowing in the vineyards that

He gathered grapes in, or the fields that wore

Him out from tilling them that day. The same

Number of lights were strewn in the eighth ditch

Gleaming, so I could see them when I came

Within sight of its base. The night looked rich:

A lake of lights, and each light was a flame.

Elias, whom the bears avenged when he

Was baited by small boys, once watched it flare—   40

Elijah’s chariot, majestically

Drawn skyward when its horses pawed the air.

No matter how he fixed it with his eyes

He made out nothing but the flame alone:

He saw a little shining cloud arise,

The glow surrounding where the fire had flown.

Just so each flame here moves along the throat

Of this ditch and none shows it is a theft

Of some vile sinner’s form we may not note.

I stood there on the bridge above the cleft   50

Grasping a rock as I stretched out to see.

For sure I would have fallen had I not

Held on—and then my Leader, seeing me

Look so intent, said “All these flames are what

False counsellors must wear and be burned by.”

“Master,” I said, “I’m sure now, having heard

You speak, of what I guessed. Already I

Wanted to ask, before you said a word,

About that fire, divided at its peak

As if it were the pyre of those two sons   60

Of Oedipus who killed each other. Speak

Of who is in there. Are there two? Which ones?”

He answered. “Two are punished there inside.

Ulysses is in there, and Diomed.

In vengeance now together they are tied

As once in wrath. They groan for pain and dread

Within the flame, and for the clever plan

Of the gift horse that opened up the gate

For the noble seed from which great Rome began

To first burst forth, and in that fiery state   70

They rue their craft by which Deidamia

Gave them Achilles, and they feel the heat

For what they stole from Troy and took so far

The stricken city sought its own defeat:

Pallas Athena’s image. There they are.

The thieves of the Palladium. In there.”

“If they can speak,” I told my Guide, “I pray,

If they can speak inside these lights they share,

This light, I pray that you might let me stay—

May it avail a thousand times, this prayer—   80

Until that flame with double horn comes near.

You see I bend towards it with desire.”

And he: “Your prayer deserves praise, never fear:

And therefore I will grant what you require.

But guard your tongue. I’ll be the one to speak.

I understood what you would like to know,

And they might scorn your language: they were Greek.”

After the flame had reached the time and place

My Guide thought fitting, thus he spoke to it:

“You that are two within one fiery space,   90

If while I lived you ever thought me fit

To be respected when I wrote of you—

If I was worthy of you, whether much

Or little, when I did my best to do

You justice with my heightened lines—let such

Devotion from me sway you to stand still

While one of you tells where, when he was lost,

He went to die.” Hearing my Master’s will,

The larger of the flaming horns was tossed

And murmured as if by the wind misled.   100

Its point waved to and fro as if it were

A tongue that spoke, a voice thrown out, that said:

“When I left Circe, having lived with her

More than a year in Italy, before

Aeneas got there, no love for my son,

No duty to my father, and what’s more

No love I owed Penelope—the one

Who would have been most glad—could overcome

In me the passion that I had, to gain

Experience of the world, and know the sum   110

Of virtue, pleasure, wisdom, vice and pain.

Once more I set out on the open sea,

With just one ship, crewed by my loyal men,

The stalwart who had not deserted me.

As far as Spain I saw both shores, and then

Morocco, and Sardinia, and those

Numberless islands that the sea surrounds.

But men grow old and slow as the time goes,

And so did we, and so we reached the bounds

Of voyaging, that narrow outlet marked   120

By Hercules so nobody should sail

Beyond, and anybody thus embarked

Knows, by those pillars, he is sure to fail.

Seville on my right hand, I left behind

Ceuta on my left. ‘Brothers,’ I said,

‘Dangers uncounted and of every kind

Fit to make other sailors die of dread

You have come through, and you have reached the west,

And now our senses fade, their vigil ends:

They ask to do the easy thing, and rest.   130

But in the brief time that remains, my friends,

Would you deny yourselves experience

Of that unpeopled world we’ll find if we

Follow the sun out into the immense

Unknown? Remember now your pedigree.

You were not born to live as brutes. Virtue

And knowledge are your guiding lights.’ I gave

With these words such an impulse to my crew

For enterprise that I could not, to save

My life, have held them back. We flew   140

On oars like wings, our stern, in that mad flight,

Towards the morning. Always left we bore.

Stars of the other pole we saw at night,

And ours so low that from the ocean floor

It never once arose. Five times the light

Had kindled and then quenched beneath the moon

Since first we ventured on our lofty task,

When we could see a mountain, though not soon

Could see it clearly: distance was a mask

That made it dim. But it was high, for sure:   150

Higher than anything I’d ever seen,

It climbed into the sky. Who could be more

Elated than we were, had not we been

Plunged straight away into deep sorrow, for

The new land gave rise to a storm that struck

Our ship’s forepart. Three times the waters led

Us in a circle. Fourth time, out of luck.

Stern high, bow low, we went in. Overhead

Somebody closed the sea, and we were dead.”

CANTO 27

The flame already was erect and still,

Saying no more as it prepared to go—

According to my gentle Poet’s will—

When, with a sound that it was hard to know

The meaning of, arrived another flame

Behind it, and that strange noise drew our gaze

Towards the new fire’s point from which it came,

A blurred voice at the apex of the blaze.

Just as that bull designed in Sicily,

To roast the tyrant’s victims, bellowed first   10

With the voice of him by whom it came to be—

He shaped it with his file, wishing the worst

For all that it would kill: his fate was just—

Just as that bull, although it was of brass,

Cried with its victims’ voices so it must

Have seemed thrust through with pain, no words could pass

Straight from this fire, no matter how unstrung.

But after they had come up through the flame,

All the vibrations that had moved the tongue

Were given to the point, to sound the same.   20

“You there to whom I speak,” we heard him say,

“Who just spoke Lombard, saying ‘Let it wait,

The rest of it: time to be on your way,’

Though I have come, perhaps, a little late,

Please don’t be irked to stay and talk awhile:

You see it doesn’t bother me, and I

Am burning. If just now into this vile

Blind world you fell from Italy on high,

The sweet land where I got the guilt I bring

Down here, then tell me of the Romagnoles:   30

Do they have peace, or war? For I still cling

To memories of land that climbs and rolls,

The mountains looming over everything

Between Urbino and the final height

That sets the Tiber free.” I was still bent

To listen when my Leader, with a light

Touch to my side, said “You know what he meant,

So speak to him. He comes from Italy.”

I knew my answer, which without delay

I gave. “O soul kept here in secrecy,   40

You know there’s not, nor ever was, a day

When your Romagna’s tyrants, in their hearts,

Were not at war. But I saw none who were

Overtly so when I left. In those parts

Ravenna stands as usual. Over her

The Eagle of Polenta broods: its wings

Keep Cervia covered. Forlì, that once bore

A long siege and reduced the French to strings

Of blood and guts, now finds itself once more

Beneath the Green Claws. Both the young and old   50

Mastiffs that ruled in Rimini and made

A shambles of Montagna, take and hold

And tear up with their fangs all those they flayed:

Two Malatestas of Verrucchio,

Dogs on the loose. Faenza, Imola,

Bow down to one who, as the seasons go,

Changes his party, and his markings are

White lair, young lion. By the Savio

Bathed on its flank, Cesena, in between

Mountains and plain, to tyranny one day   60

And liberty the next will always lean.

But who you are I now beg you to say,

So your name in the world may keep its place.

Be not more slow to send your words my way

Than I to you, for courtesy and grace.”

True to its usual manner the flame roared

Awhile, then moved its sharp point here and there

And gave breath: “If I thought now to afford

An answer to one bound to breathe the air

Again in the fair world, this flame would stand   70

With no more movement, but since none return

Alive from these depths, if I understand

Correctly what I hear, how could I earn

More infamy that I have now? A man

Of war I was at first, and then, to make

Amends, or so I thought, I had a plan

To be a friar of Francis, and to take

The cord. Indeed it would have all come true

But Boniface, the Great Priest—give him Hell!—

Pulled me back in. The things I used to do   80

I did again, the old sins. It were well

That you should know the how and why. When I

Still wore my mother’s gift of flesh and bone,

My deeds were not the lion’s. I was sly,

A fox. All wiles and ways to slink alone

Unseen, I knew, and practised hidden arts

So everywhere on Earth they were renowned.

Then, when I came to where our youth departs

And men should strike their sails and make a round

Heap of the ropes, that which before had been   90

So pleasing grieved me. With repentance, then

Confession, I turned friar. I was clean.

Ah, misery! For then the worst of men,

The Prince of the new Pharisees—at war

Right there in holy Rome, and not with Jews

Or Saracens, but Christians who before

Had neither conquered Acre nor would choose

To fight the Saladin against the law

Forbidding mercenaries—in despite

Of his own holy order’s sacred chair,   100

And my cord of devotion, best worn tight

To make the wearers thin from what they wear,

As Constantine brought back Sylvester from

Soracte with a cure for leprosy,

So this man came to me for a nostrum

To cure the fever of his pride. To me,

Guido da Montefeltro! While he sought

My counsel, I was silent, for his speech

Seemed profligate with drink, or so I thought.

He spoke again: ‘Trust me, and let me reach   110

Your heart. Henceforth your sins are all absolved

Forever. All you have to do is teach

My troops what stratagems might be involved

In flattening Palestrina, the stronghold

Of the Colonna. That the power is mine

To lock and unlock Heaven, you’ve been told

And know well. Know, too, that my sign

Of office, the two keys that Celestine

Did not hold dear, I do.’ And thus his weight

Of argument, despite what it might mean,   120

Drove me to where my silence seemed the state

Of most offence. And so ‘Father,’ I said,

‘You cleanse me of the sin which I must now

Embrace, and in the scant observance bred

From lavish promise you will soon endow

Your lofty seat with triumph.’ Thus, as soon

As I was dead, and Francis came, a black

Cherub told him: ‘You can’t grant him the boon

Of taking him with you. He must come back

With me among my minions, for he gave   130

Fraudulent counsel, and from that day on

I had him by the hair until the grave.

For no crime not repented of is gone,

Nor can repentance and the will to do

An evil coexist. They contradict

Each other.’ I, poor broken wretch, was too

Shocked not to tremble when he laid his strict

Arrest on me and said: ‘Well, now you know:

I’m a logician.’ Down to Minos borne,

Eight times I saw him flex his tail to throw   140

A coil around his rough back: a tail torn

By his own teeth, such was his rage. And he:

‘This wicked one is for the fire of thieves.’

And therefore I am lost here, as you see,

And clothed like this I go as one who grieves

In burning bitterness.” And speechlessly

The mourning fire departed, pointed tip

Twisting and tossing. We, I and my Guide,

Moved on with constantly adjusted grip

Over the ridge to where, on its far side,   150

The arch begins that spans the ditch where they

Who gain by sowing discord come to pay.

CANTO 28

Even with fluent words and with the tale

Told often, who could tell of all the blood

And wounds that I now saw? All tongues would fail

For certain. Overwhelmed with such a flood

Of fact, our speech and memory can stand

Only so much. If all those stricken folk

In Southern Italy, that fateful land,

Who once bewailed their blood shed by the stroke

Of Trojan sword, could only be one band

Again—but they knew also the long war   10

With Carthage, when the golden Roman rings

Were piled in heaps by Hannibal: a store

That Livy notes, true always in these things—

And if to all of these were added more,

The ones who suffered grievous blows when they

Resisted Robert Guiscard, and all those

Whose bones at Ceperano to this day

Still lie in heaps, and everybody knows

The Southerners broke faith; and it was hard

By Tagliacozzo that Alado won   20

Purely by strategy, his troops unscarred,

But on his victims fearful work was done;

And if some were to show limbs that were cut,

And others were to show the limbs they lost,

It would be horrible and endless, but

Nothing beside the mess that had been tossed

To fester in the ninth ditch. Not a cask,

Through loss of end-board or of stave, could gape

Like one I saw who, from below the mask

Of pain that was his face but held its shape,   30

Was torn wide open right down to the crack

That farts. Between his legs his entrails hung:

Intestines on display, and the foul sack

That turns the food we swallow into dung.

While I was all eyes, he looked back at me

And with his hand he further spread his breast,

Saying: “Behold, I split myself. You see

Mahomet mangled. And there go the rest

Before me. First Ali, my son-in-law,

His face from chin to forehead sliced in two,   40

Then everyone who in the life before

Sowed scandal, schism, and therefore must do

Time twice. Thus we who split things are now split.

There is a devil in behind us here

Who cruelly cares for us and sees to it

That all who make the circuit and are near

To healing as they come around again

With closing wounds on this sad thoroughfare,

Will meet the cleaving sword’s edge there and then

In front of him. But who are you up there   50

Who lingers on the ridge? Do you delay

In fear of penalties for what you are

Accused of?” “Neither has he reached the day

Of death,” my Master said, “nor yet by far

Does guilt bring him to torment. But to give

Him full experience, he must be brought

Down here by me, I who no longer live,

But know the way through Hell from its forecourt

Through circle after circle to the end.

And as you hear me speak, this is as true.”   60

More than a hundred heard this from my friend

And stopped to look at me, their wonder too

Intense for pain to be remembered. “Soon,

Perhaps, you’ll see the sun again. Tell Fra

Dolcino, then, that down here, where the moon

Gives all the light, he surely won’t be far

Behind me if he doesn’t stock supplies

Of food against the fall of mountain snow

That just might give Novara the surprise

Victory it shouldn’t have.” All set to go,   70

With one foot raised, Mahomet said all that,

Then set it on the ground and left. Then one

With pierced throat, nose cut off exactly at

The eyebrow’s bottom line, and one ear done

Away with, stopped with all the rest to gaze

In wonder, and before them all he cleared

His windpipe, which outside wore a red glaze,

And said: “In one piece you have here appeared,

For guilt does not condemn you that I met—

Unless too close a likeness tricks my brain—   80

Above in Italy. Please, don’t forget—

If ever you return to the sweet plain

That from Vercelli slopes to Macabò—

Piero da Medicina. Make it known

To Fano’s two chief men—make sure they know,

Guido and Angiolello—they’ll be thrown

Out of their ship and drowned. This comes to pass

Near La Cattolica, through treachery

Of a foul tyrant. No crime of this class

Was ever seen by Neptune in the sea   90

From Cyprus to Majorca, whether done

By pirates or by Greeks. That traitor who

Sees with one eye, the Young Mastiff that none

Can challenge now in Rimini—and you

Already know that someone here would like

Not to have seen that city—will contrive

To bring them to a meeting, and then strike

In such a way that they will not arrive,

Nor need to pray against Focara’s gale,

That deadly wind they’ll never have to face.”   100

And I: “Point out to me and tell his tale,

The one for whom the mere sight of that place,

Rimini, was so bitter. Give me this,

If you would have me carry back your news

Into the world.” Not minded to dismiss

A threat to all that he had left to lose,

He reached out sideways to another’s jaw

And forced it open, crying “Here he stands

And does not speak. Expelled from Rome by law

He fled to Caesar in the Gallic lands,   110

And told him that delay, for one prepared,

Meant loss, and he should cross the Rubicon:

And by that bad advice, war was declared

And glory won, but unity was gone.”

The tribune Curio! And how aghast

He seemed, his tongue slit in his throat, the man

Who spoke so boldly, back there in the past.

But now, with both hands missing, one began

To lift his torn stumps through the murky air

So blood besmirched his face that said “You will   120

Remember Mosca also, who was there

In Florence to say something fit to kill

The members of two families, one his own:

‘A deed that’s done is over.’ So I said,

And should be here for saying that alone,

For still today the Tuscans count the dead.”

I added “Death to all your stock,” at which

With sorrow heaped on sorrow, off he went

Crazy with grief. But I stayed in the ditch

To watch the ruined people, how they spent   130

Their time, and then I witnessed such a sight

As I would fear to tell of, had I not

More facts held in reserve than now I write

In my account of it; but I have got

My conscience here to bolster me, the good

Companion that can render a man bold

Under the breastplate of his pure manhood.

I saw, and seem to see still—all I’ve told

Is true, and this is too—a headless thing

That walked with all the rest of the sad band.   140

It held its severed head by the bunched string

Of its own hair, and swung it with its hand

As if it were a lantern. The head stared

At us, and “Woe is me” was what it said.

A light unto itself, the two were paired—

The shining lantern and the bright-eyed head—

Finding a path as only He would know

Who governs. When it reached us at the bridge

Where we stood high so it was just below,

It exercised its awful privilege   150

And raised its head high with its arm, and so

Its words were nearer to us. These were they:

“See now my grievous punishment, you there

Who breathe, and look, as you go on your way,

Upon the dead: see if just one despair

Can match mine. And, so you may tell one day

My news, know now the man that I once was:

Bertran de Born, noble and troubadour.

Henry, young king of England, just because

Of my bad counsel, made unlawful war   160

Against his father. When Ahithophel

Wickedly goaded Absalom to fight

Against King David, he did no more well.

Because I parted two that had the right

To crowns, I carry now my brain through Hell,

But sundered from the corpse that was its root—

For such a crime, the punishment to suit.”

CANTO 29

Strange wounds for many people had so made

My eyes drunk, that they would have stayed and wept,

But Virgil said: “How is your gaze repaid

By lingering down there where they are kept,

So many kinds of miserable, maimed shade?

You haven’t done this in the other rings.

You want to count them? Then consider this;

That valley, its floor crawling with those things,

Runs twenty-two miles round. And did you miss

The moon? Already it’s beneath our feet.   10

The time permitted to us now is short,

And there is more to look at than will meet

Your eyes here.” I said: “Had you given thought

To why I looked, you might have granted me

A longer stay.” While I made that reply

My Leader had moved on unheedingly.

“I think,” I added, “in that cave, where I

Stared so intently just now, there might be

A shade, my kin, who now weeps for the pain

Which is guilt’s price down there.” My Master said   20

“From now on you should let your thoughts remain

Untroubled by his fate. Let them be led

By other things. Let that one stay down there.

Below the bridge, he pointed up at you

And fiercely shook his finger with an air

Of threat. I heard a name I thought you knew:

Geri del Bello, yes? But you were so

Wrapped up in him whose head was his to hold

As once he held Hautefort, that there was no

Chance you would see, even if you were told,   30

The other one until he went.” “My Guide,”

I said, “My father’s cousin is not yet

Avenged for the foul blow by which he died.

The partners in his shame seem to forget

They owe him this, and so he was outraged

And therefore, as I judge, without a word

To me, he moved on, and the war he waged

Within himself so silently has stirred

In me much more compassion than before.”

Did grace desired mean honour’s claims deferred?   40

We talked of this until the nearest bluff

Which shows the next ditch from the ridge. With more

Light on the subject we’d have seen enough

To know what it was like down to its floor.

But as things were, when we arrived above

That final cloister so that we could see

Its sad lay brothers, then I had to glove

My stunned ears with my hands for sympathy,

Because the shafts of sorrow they let loose

Were barbed with pity and the grief was strange   50

That thus assailed us. It was not diffuse:

It was as if some cruel force might arrange

That all the ills of all the hospitals

Of all of Val di Chiana from July

Until September, and Maremma’s halls

Of fever, and all those marked soon to die

In sick Sardinia, should pack the walls

Of one crypt. So it was here, and the stink

Came out of it as if from limbs that rot.

Down from the last ridge, down to the last brink   60

Still keeping left we climbed, until I got

A clear view downward all the way to where

Justice Infallible, the Sovereign Lord’s

Handmaiden, marks the names and keeps in care

The counterfeiters, and where she awards

Their punishment. No, no more sorry sight

Was offered by Aegina’s populace

When all of it was stricken by the blight,

The air so pestilential in that place

All animals down to the merest worm   70

Fell dead, and Jupiter transformed the ants

To men, so that the plague should have its term

And the ancient tribes might have a second chance,

Or so the poets say. But this was worse,

This sight, along the valley, of the shades

Who lay in heaps, and every heap diverse.

One lay face down, one made his shoulder blades

The bed-frame for another, and one moved

On hands and knees along that dreadful road.

Speechless and step by step we went. They proved,   80

The sick, they had no strength to bear the load

If they should try to raise themselves. We saw,

We heard. I saw two sitting propped

Against each other like pans set next door

To one another so the cold is stopped

From getting in between, and these two wore

Thick scabs from head to foot. No curry comb

Was ever plied by stable boy urged on

By master eager to ride out from home,

Or boy awake too long with patience gone,   90

As were the raking nails of these two souls

Against their own skins and the endless rage

Of that itch no emollient controls,

And bit by bit, but always at the stage

Of just beginning, their nails scraped them free

Of scabs, just as the knife strips off the scales

Of bream, or fish with larger finery.

But cleaning fish succeeds. This always fails.

My Leader said to one of these two “You

Whose fingers take your armour off one link   100

Of chain mail at a time, and sometimes do

The work of pincers, tell us what you think:

Are there Italians here? Your nails may toil

Forever at the task that they have now.”

“Italians both, we who make you recoil

At our disfigurement. But tell us how

You’re here to ask this,” said one as he wept,

And then my Leader: “I am one who goes

From level down to level and have kept

This living man with me, and he well knows   110

My mission is to show him Hell.” Then they

No longer could support themselves, and each

Turned trembling toward me. Further away

Others turned also, who had heard this speech.

My Master drew close, saying “Tell them what

You want.” And since he wanted that, I said:

“So that the minds of living men may not

Forget your name, so it may not be dead

To that sweet world, and live for many years,

Say who you are and from what people. May   120

Your loathsome sentence not arouse false fears

That you will suffer further if you say

These things to me.” And one replied: “Know me

For Griffolino of Arezzo. I

Was burned by Albert of Siena. He

Called me magician. But that wasn’t why

I came here. It is true I said to him

That I could rise up through the air and fly,

And he, inquisitive if somewhat dim,

Told me to show him how, and just because   130

I didn’t make him Daedalus, he had

Me burned by the Inquisitor, who was

His natural father. But to this last sad

Ditch of the ten, I was condemned and sent

For something worse. Minos, who doesn’t err,

Got me for alchemy. That’s how it went.

I’m here now because that’s the way things were.”

I to my Poet: “When was there so light

A people as the Sienese? By far

The French are less so.” Then the leprous fright   140

Who had been silent, spoke. “Perhaps some are,

But Stricca wasn’t. He knew how to spend

In moderation so well he took weeks

To bring his patrimony to an end.

Then there was Niccolò. The whole world speaks

Of how he made the clove into the taste

No one could eat without. He knew the seed,

The root, the garden. He knew how to waste

A fortune. And we also should pay heed

To those twelve of the Spendthrift Club, the gang   150

Who dressed in gold and silver, man and horse.

Their money talked and those who loaned it sang

In vain. To help that bunch in their wise course

Was Caccia of Asciano, who burned through

A vineyard and a forest, and that great

Official whose sound judgement we bowed to—

The dolt we called the Blunderer. But wait:

You should know now who seconds you in your

Appraisal of the Sienese. Look hard

At me, for you have seen this face before.   160

Look past the blisters, give me your regard,

And see Capocchio, in Siena cooked,

Without the cloves, for alchemy. I made

Fake metals, but you know how good they looked,

If you are who I think you are. My trade

Was falsifying nature. I did well

In life. But everything is real in Hell.”

CANTO 30

When Semele was loved by Jupiter

And Juno raged because of it, and shook

The house of Thebes to make it kneel to her

Time after time, Athamas could not brook

Her anger, and went mad, and when he saw

His wife go by weighed down on either side

With their two children he cried “Tooth and claw!

Let’s spread the nets and capture all the pride:

The lioness and both the cubs, as they

Go by.” And he himself had claws that grasped   10

One child, Learchus, whirling him away

To dash him on a rock. She, while she clasped

The other child, escaped, but just to drown:

And then, when Fortune laid the Trojans low

From their great loftiness, and brought them down

From where they once dared all, and spurned them so

That king and kingdom both lay in the dust,

Sad Hecuba, forlorn, enslaved, when she

Saw Polyxena dead, and knew that must

Be Polydorus on the beach, though he   20

Was hard to recognise, quite lost her mind

For grief, and, like a dog, she barked. But no

Fury that fell on Thebes or Troy could find

A place—no matter whom it struck and though

It tore up beasts and limbs of men—next to

The cruelty that now I saw. Two pale

And naked shades ran as a hog might do

Loosed biting from the sty, one to assail

Capocchio. Sharp fangs sunk in his neck’s nape,

It dragged him and his scabs along the ditch   30

Whose hard floor made his itchy belly scrape.

Then Griffolino, left to look and twitch

Beside me, said: “That goblin in a rage

Is Gianni Schicchi, and he deals with all

That way, himself the great fraud of his age.”

And I to him: “So it may not befall

The other one should fix its teeth in you

Before it makes off, tell me who it is.”

And he to me: “The shade of Myrrha, who

Was by her father, as if she was his   40

By law, made concubine. She joined the sin,

Pretending she was someone else; as that

One there, who goes off, took the whole world in—

To get the horse that everyone aimed at,

The Lady of the Stud, he took the name

And style of Buoso di Donati, made

The will, and then, to prove his wily fame,

Faked Buoso’s death in bed. Such was the trade

Of Gianni Schicchi, and his lasting shame.

A mimic. May his lustre never fade.”   50

And when those two on whom I’d kept my eyes

In all their fury had at last moved on,

I turned to all those ill-born others. Prize

Exhibit among those was one upon

Whom fingers might have played. He was a lute,

Or would have been, if cut short at the groin

From that part where a man is forked. Acute

Dropsy—by which the members cease to join

In just proportion, humours are disposed

The wrong way, and the belly answers not   60

The face—decreed his lips were never closed,

Much like the rabid one whose thirst runs hot

So one lip curls down always to the chin,

The other upward. “You that walk here free

From any kind of punishment for sin

Through this grim world, how such a thing could be

Who knows? But look, give heed now to the grief

Of Master Adam. While alive, I had

All that I wished, but now know no relief

From thirst for just one drop of water. Mad,   70

The mere thought makes me of the little streams

That from green hills of Casentino flow

Down to the Arno, channels like sweet dreams

Run cool and wet before me, and are no

Frivolity, for just their image seems

To parch me worse than all the ills that waste

My features. The unbending justice which

Examines me and makes me breathe in haste

Starts up there where I sinned, not in this ditch:

There in Romena, where I falsified   80

The coins stamped with the Baptist, and for that

I left my body up there when I died,

All burned. But even if I could be at

My dearest Fonte Branda, I would give

That chance for only one glimpse of the three

Brothers who got me into it. Two live:

There’s Alessandro and that other one. For me

The one who counts is Guido, and he’s here

Already, if those angry shades who run

Around this ring speak truth. Why would he fear   90

Me, though? My limbs imprison me. Just one

Inch in a hundred years: if I were just

That light, I would have set out on the road

To find him among all these misshapes. Trust

My promise, though I’d have to haul my load

Eleven miles around and more than half

A mile across. But through them, here I am.

I made the golden coin a golden calf.

Our florin, pride of Florence, was a sham,

Minted by me. Three carats of hardware   100

To drain its worth.” And I to him: “Those two

Poor wretches lying near your border there

Who give off smoke the same way wet hands do

In winter, who are they?” And he: “You care?

I found them when I rained into this trough.

They didn’t move then, and they haven’t since,

Nor will they stir, unless my guess is off,

For all eternity. You think she’d wince

At least, that lying wife of Potiphar

Who did for Joseph. Sinòn is the Greek   110

Who fooled the Trojans. And now here they are,

A pair of fatal fabulists. That reek

Comes from their burning fever.” Then Sinòn,

Who took it ill, perhaps, that he had come

To be so scorned, punched his accuser on

His paunch of leather, which boomed like a drum,

And Master Adam struck him in the face

With his huge arm—his punch seemed no less hard—

Saying: “Although my limbs keep me in place

By their great weight, still I am not debarred   120

In such a case, from having one arm loose.”

Sinòn replied: “When you went to the fire,

You hadn’t, but you had it free for use

When striking false coin. All you could require

Of strength you had then, so that’s no excuse.”

The dropsied one said: “In this you speak true,

But nothing that you said was true in Troy,

Where simple truth was all they asked of you,

A guest they had made welcome, and with joy.”

“If I spoke falsely,” said Sinòn, “the fault   130

Was mine just once. You with your lying coins

Struck many times. You kept up an assault

That earns you, more than anyone who joins

Us here, a place of honour.” Thus addressed,

He of the paunch replied: “The horse, the horse!

Remember, perjurer, the way you pressed

Your wooden gift on them, and let remorse

Plague you that all the world has come to know.”

“And you be plagued,” the Greek said, “with the thirst

That cracks your tongue, and with that liquid so   140

Corrupt it swells your guts into the first

Thing that you see, a hedge before your eyes.”

The counterfeiter then: “Thus your mouth gapes

To set you wrong, and never otherwise.

I thirst, yes, and foul humour cruelly shapes

My belly so that it attains this size,

But you have burning fever, your head aches,

And you would need small urging to lick dry

The mirror of Narcissus. All it takes

Is just to say it’s made of water.” I   150

Was all absorbed in listening, but then

My Master said: “You keep this up much more

And I will lose my patience with you.” When

I heard him speak it shook me to the core,

He was so angry, and with so much shame

I turned towards him that it haunts me still

In memory. My thoughts were just the same

As in one of those dreams when something ill

Is being done to you, and in the dream

You wish it were a dream, so that you long   160

For that which is as if it weren’t, and seem

To see yourself afraid, and are not wrong.

Just so, I felt I’d lost the power to speak

From wanting to excuse myself, and yet

Excused myself until my voice grew weak

Repeating all I hoped he would forget.

“Much greater faults than yours are washed away

By much less shame,” my Master said. “Unload

Your heart of all grief. I am here today

And always, at your side on the long road,   170

To tell you, if by chance you’re led astray

By people in a quarrel, that the wish

To listen while they fight is devilish.”

CANTO 31

The self-same tongue that first had stung me so

It dyed my cheeks with shame by what it said,

Had offered me the medicine. As we know,

Achilles’ spear, that was his father’s, wed

Those same two properties. It first brought woe,

And then brought solace. Thus we turned away

From that sad valley, and went up the bank

Enclosing it, with no word left to say.

Here it was less than night—sight wasn’t blank

Ahead—though it was also less than day,   10

So I could not see far. But I could hear

A horn’s blast, so loud that it would have made

A thunderclap sound faint. It rang so clear

That straight from me to it the path was laid

For my gaze to rebound. Not when Charlemagne

Lost to the Saracens in one sad rout

His sacred army, did Roland in pain

Raise up his horn in such an awful shout—

His ivory horn, lamenting for the slain,

That his king heard three miles away. Not long   20

Was my head turned that way before I thought

To see tall towers in a looming throng.

“Master,” I said therefore, “tell me what sort

Of city stands out there.” And he to me:

“Because you gaze through shadows far too deep

Your fancy strays, and when you’re there you’ll see

How distance tricks the senses. Therefore keep

Your steps ahead. More speed.” And kindly he

Said as he took my hand: “Before we go

Much further, so the fact may seem less strange:   30

Those things ahead aren’t towers. You should know

They’re giants, and around the pit they range,

Sunk, from the navel down, in its rock rim.”

As when the mist thins, and sight bit by bit

Gives shape again to what has been made dim

By air the cloud loads, so I conquered it,

That thick and foggy atmosphere, and neared

The brink, but as I did so, error fled

And was replaced by everything I feared,

The hints and outlines of a sight to dread.   40

For just as on the circle of its walls

Montereggione has towers for a crown,

So, on this pit’s embankment, it befalls

That giants tower, although from halfway down

They are unseen. But what is seen bulks large

And horrible as when they first attacked

Olympus, and Jove had to stem their charge,

And still shouts thundering vengeance for that act.

Now I began to pick one out: the face,

The shoulders and the chest, and a good part   50

Of the belly, and, by both sides held in place,

The arms. Yes, Nature, when she quit the art

Of making creatures of this kind, did right

To keep from Mars the warriors he would

Have wished for. Though she still smiles on the might

Of elephants and whales, we think that good,

If we look carefully. She’s just and wise,

For only when ill will and massive strength

Are joined with mental power does it arise

That the invincible is born. The length   60

And bulk of the great man-high bronze pine cone

In Rome before St. Peter’s: thus his head.

And he was huge not in his head alone:

His bones were in proportion. As I said,

The bank, his apron, hid him from the waist

On down, but up above he was on show

To such an altitude you could have placed

Three Frieslanders, whose startling height we know,

One on the next and they would vainly hope

To reach his hair. From that notch where a man   70

Buckles his cloak you could have hung a rope

Straight down for seven strides. The mouth began

To cry: “Palabra wort kotoba word parole!”

Such senseless sounds had no sweet psalms to fit.

My Master cut him off: “You stupid soul,

Keep to your horn. With that you may emit

Your rage, or any passion. At your neck

You’ll find the strap that holds it tied. It lies

Across your pompous chest, you poor sad wreck.”

To me: “He stands accused by how he cries,   80

And so condemns himself with scrambled speech:

Nimrod. The wicked tower was his design

We call Babel, by which all countries each

Have different tongues, and even yours is mine

Only in part. Let’s leave him there. Why talk

When every tongue to him is random sound

As his to all the others? Come, let’s walk.”

And so we set off, turning left, and found,

A bow-shot further on, another one,

Far bigger and more savage. He’d been bound   90

By expert hands. Whose? Still, the job was done:

His left arm caught in front, his right behind

By one chain wound around the half that showed

In five coils. “This proud one was of a mind

To scale the heavens by a giants’ road—

Made from piled mountains that they went to find—

And challenge Jove. And this is his reward.”

So said my Leader. “He made his assault

When gods feared giants. Order was restored.

Ephialtes, this is, come to a halt.   100

The arms that once moved mountains move no more.”

And I to him: “Please may I see the vast

Briareus with my own eyes? You swore

In your book he had fifty heads. At last

I’ll see him for myself.” “The one for you,”

My Master said, “is near and speaks unchained:

Antaeus. He will lead us down into

The depths of guilt. There’s little to be gained

From him you want to see, who’s far ahead,

Bound up like this one and built much the same,   110

Except his face is fiercer.” So he said.

Ephialtes then shook his hulking frame

More violently than ever earthquake shook

A tower, and more than ever I feared death.

The terror of the sight was all it took,

Even without that chain, to take my breath.

So we went on and came to Antaeus,

Whose top half, from the rock up, stood the full

Five ells, or seven strides, and all this plus

The head. “You that once stood where Hannibal   120

And all his army lost to Scipio

In Libya, and turned their backs and ran—

That fateful valley—you that could not know

All that would happen there of Heaven’s plan,

But took for prey a thousand lions, you—

Through whom, had you been with your brothers when

They fought the gods, the dreams could have come true

Of those sons of the earth, who might have then

Had powers of conquest—now have this to do:

Take us below and set us down—nor should   130

You show disdain at this—down where the cold

Locks up Cocytus. It will do no good

To take us on to Tityus, that bold

Titan Apollo burned, nor to Typhon,

Buried in Etna. This man here can give

The thing you crave. Come, then, and take us on.

Forget that curling lip. By him you live:

He can restore your waning fame up there.

He is alive, and plans to stay that way

For a long time, unless Grace calls him where   140

It wants him sooner.” This I heard him say.

The giant then reached out the hands in haste

Whose mighty grip was felt by Hercules

And took my Guide. Feeling himself embraced,

Virgil looked down and said: “Come closer, please:

It’s your turn.” And he held me round the waist

To make one bundle of us both. Just as

Bologna’s tower, the Garisenda, seen

From underneath, persuades you that it has

An even greater angle to its lean   150

When clouds go over in the contrary

Direction to the way it hangs, so seemed

Antaeus when I watched him bend. For me

It was a moment when I might have deemed

A different road the better bet. But he

Set us down lightly there where Lucifer

I knew must be with Judas, in the deep,

Engulfed. Somewhere down here was where they were.

Our bending giant had a gate to keep.

He couldn’t stay like that, but like a mast   160

He straightened up—and we were there at last.

CANTO 32

Had I the bitter, grating rhymes to fit

This grim hole on which all the other rocks

Bear down, I’d do a better job of it

When pressing out my thought’s sap. But what blocks

The flow is just that: my soft, childish tongue.

It is with fear that I begin to speak,

Because a language we employ when young

To call our mother “mummy” is too weak

To use, even in sport, when touching on

The lowest level of the universe.   10

But may the Muses who helped Amphion

To build the walls of Thebes now reimburse

My service to them and give me the tools

To match the brute facts with the tale I tell.

Ah, traitors! Beyond all the separate schools

Of misbegotten sinners in this well

So hard to speak of, you had best have been

Brought here as sheep and goats! Down in the dark

Cistern below the giants’ feet we’d seen

Only the wall above us, high and stark,   20

When I heard said to me: “Watch where you tread.

The wretched weary brothers locked below

Can’t move, and you might tread on someone’s head.”

At which I turned, and saw that it was so:

Before me and beneath my feet, a lake

Was made by ice to look much more like glass

Than water. Northern rivers, though you take

The Danube or the Don, could not surpass

This hardness even under their cold sky

Of winter, when their veils grow thick to freeze   30

Their flow. A mountain would have had to fly

And fall on this from any height you please—

Mount Tambernic, or Pietrapana, I

Leave you to choose—for it to show a crack,

Or creak at the thin edge. And as the frog

That sits, with muzzle out and body slack

Below the water, will croak through the fog

Of reverie that wraps the peasant maid

Who gleans her flax, so, livid up to where

Shame flushes in the face, each suffering shade   40

Lay in the ice, and all with their teeth bare

And set to make the sound of the stork’s bill.

Each keeps his face bent down, but testifies,

With how his mouth looks, to the killing chill,

Confessing his heart’s misery with his eyes.

I looked around awhile: then, at my feet,

I saw two pressed together so the hair

Of their heads mingled. I said: “You that meet

With such strain chest to chest while lying there,

Who are you?” They bent back their necks, those two,   50

And when their faces were raised up, I saw

Their eyes, which had held tears as sad eyes do,

But all within the lids, now shed far more,

That spilled over the brim, and the frost tied

Their tears between them, and the two were locked

As hard as beam and beam lie side by side,

Squeezed by the clamp’s jaws. Whereupon, each shocked

The other. Butting heads, like goats they vied,

Such fury ruled them. And one who had lost

Both ears from cold, his face still turned down, spoke:   60

“Why do you gaze so long into the frost

And see yourself with us, like frozen smoke?

If you would know who these two were, the stream

So sweetly named Bisenzio flows through

Their father’s valley, which it was the scheme

Of each to own, and that’s what led them to

Their crime against each other. From one womb

They came, and all of Caina you may search

And find no shade more suited to a tomb

Of crystal ice. Their fate was to besmirch   70

Their father’s name, Alberto. Even he

Whose breast and shadow, pierced with just one blow

From Arthur, gaped so deep that men could see

Right through him, I mean Mordred, isn’t so

Deserving of the place that these hold, nor

Focaccia of Pistoia, who began

The feud of Blacks and Whites, nor him before

My eyes here, this infuriating man

Who constantly obstructs me with his head

So that I can’t see past. He was Sassol   80

Mascheroni, who thought he merited

His nephew’s wealth, and killed him. If the roll

Of Florentines includes you, then his fame

Is known to you. But now, that you spare me

The task of talking further, know my name

Is Camicion de’ Pazzi. I will be

Exonerated by a greater shame,

Carlino’s, when a castle of the Whites

Is given up by him.” And after that

I saw a thousand faces from dogfights   90

All snarling with the cold, so, looking at

A frozen pond, I shudder still today.

And when we neared the central point where all

Of gravity converges, on my way

In fear along the strange floor of that hall,

I shivered in the long chill. Then—by fate

Or chance, I can’t be sure which—as I stepped

Among the heads, I trod on one full weight,

Square in its face. It shouted as it wept:

“Why do you trample me? Unless you come   100

Because you think revenge for your defeat

At Montaperti has not reached a sum

Sufficient, why choose my poor cheeks to beat?

Because my face is cold, you think it numb?”

And I: “My Master, wait now for me here,

Before you make me hasten as you wish.

But first, through this man, I have doubts to clear.”

My Master stopped, and to the feverish

Blasphemer I said: “You that so revile

Another, who are you?” “And who are you,”   110

The answer came, “that walks the dreadful mile

Through Antenora—named for that man who

Betrayed Troy to the Greeks—and kicks my face

Harder than if he lived?” “I live indeed,”

I said, “And if in fame you seek a place

So that your name is seen by all who read,

My noting it may be worth much to you.”

And he to me: “I crave the opposite.

Get out of here, if that’s all you can do,

And give me no more grief. You lack the wit   120

To flatter at this depth.” And then I took

Him by the hair and said: “Your name, right now,

Or I will make your scalp an open book.”

And then he said: “Even if you knew how

To strip me bald, my name you’ll not be told,

Nor would I tell you even if you fell

Upon my helpless head a thousandfold.”

I had his hair already in my fist,

Twisted, one tuft torn out, and set for more.

He barked but held his head down as my wrist   130

Quivered to tear again. “But why so sore,

Bocca?” cried someone else. “You’re not content

With jawbone music? Now you have to bark?

What devil drives you to this new lament?”

“Well, now that I’m no longer in the dark,”

I said, “foul traitor, I can take, in spite

Of you, a true report.” “Say what you like,

Just go,” he said. “But back there in the light

Be sure, of him just now so keen to strike,

You tell the tale. For down here he laments   140

The silver the French gave him when he waved

Them into Italy. Speak in this sense:

Just say ‘I saw him of Duero, saved

To cool with all the other traitors.’ Should

They ask you who was here, beside you lies,

From Beccheria, he that planned no good

Against the Guelphs in Florence, and his prize

Was getting his throat slit. Sent by the Pope,

And then sent here. And then there’s that two-faced

Gianni de’ Soldanier, at last, we hope,   150

Pleased that he knows exactly how he’s placed,

Who should have hung from both ends of a rope.

And further on is Ganelon, the cause

Of Roland’s death, traitor to Charlemagne,

And Tebaldello who flung wide the doors

Of slumbering Faenza so that pain

Could enter in.” But we had left him there

Already, when I saw two in one hole,

Fast frozen so that one head seemed to wear

The other for a hood, and the damned soul   160

Above was fastened on the one below

As hungry men chew bread, but at the spot

Where brain and neck’s nape meet. Exactly so,

Tydeus of the Seven Kings, who got

His mortal wound from Menalippus, chewed

The temples of his killer, from sheer rage.

This one assaulted, as if they were food,

The skull and other parts. “You there, that wage

A war of hatred against him you eat

And prove it with the signs of a mad beast,   170

Why do you do this?” I asked. “Let us meet

In this agreement. If there is at least

Some reason for your manner of complaint

Against him, I, if only I knew you

And what his sin was, could remove the taint

From your name in the world above. It’s true

The tongue I talk with has to stay intact.

So far it has. So far it hasn’t cracked.”

CANTO 33

Lifting his mouth from that most savage kind

Of meal, the sinner wiped it on the hair

Of just the head he’d wasted from behind,

And thus began: “You ask me to declare

A desperate grief which, merely in my mind,

Torments my heart before I talk. And yet

If what I say could be the seed that bore

The fruit of infamy for him I get

My only food from, I will speak, and more:

I’ll speak and weep together. I can’t guess   10

Who you might be, and by what means you came

Down here, but when I hear your bold address

I sense a Florentine. So know my name:

Count Ugolino. The Archbishop here,

Ruggieri, is my neighbour. Let me tell

You why. How by his wiles he drew me near

To him, and won my trust so that I fell

Beneath his thrall, was captured, and was slain:

I needn’t say all that. But what you don’t

Know yet—just how my death in pain   20

Was cruel beyond imagining—you won’t

Be spared from hearing, and then you may see

How wrong he was. A mere slit in the wall

Of that loft they named Hunger after me—

And in which others yet, beyond recall

Will be shut up—had shown me through its chink

Already several moons, when a bad dream

Shredded the veil of all I liked to think

The future held. This man was made to seem

A lord and master hunting wolf and whelps   30

On that high hill for which the Pisans can’t

See Lucca. With hounds lean, trained, their cruel yelps

Echoing eagerly, he’d sent—I shan’t

Pretend I didn’t see the wolves were meant

For people—his prey racing out ahead,

And soon, from fear and effort, the legs went

In father and in son, and then they bled

From flanks pulled open, slain where they fell spent,

Ripped up by sharp fangs. The Gualandi died,

Along with the Sismondi. Pieces torn   40

From the Lanfranchi were strewn far and wide.

It was a shambles. Then, before the dawn,

When I awoke, I heard my children cry

While still asleep—but I forgot to warn

You of this news, that they were there—and I

Could hear them beg for bread. You’re cruel indeed

If you do not grieve, now you have in view

What my sad heart foresaw: and if you need

Worse things to make you weep, then when do you

Weep ever? But by now they were awake.   50

Our meagre daily ration was now due.

Each boy was still afraid from the heartache

Felt in his dream, and then I heard, below,

That foul keep’s front door being shut with nails.

At which, without a word, lest they should know

From my voice how a heart feels when it fails,

I looked into the faces of my sons.

I didn’t weep, for I had turned to stone

Within. They wept, and of my little ones,

Anselm, the smallest, said, all on his own,   60

‘Father, why do you look like that? What’s wrong?’

And still I shed no tears, nor all that day

Gave answer. And the next night was so long,

And still I didn’t, till the first small ray

Of light from the next sun had reached the world,

And as that beam invaded our sad cell

I saw, lit clearly where its flag unfurled,

Four faces, and I knew then, all too well,

Those faces looked like mine. I bit my hands

For grief, but why they thought it must have been   70

For hunger, any starved man understands.

They rose as one. You must know what I mean

When I say that all four said the same thing:

Their voices added up to this. ‘Far less

Pain there will be for us if you should feed

On us, Father. For you gave us the dress

Of mortal flesh. Now it is what you need,

So take it back.’ And, not to make them more

Unhappy, I was silent. For two days

We all were. And how was it you forbore   80

To open up, hard Earth? Did you want praise

For steadfastness? And then the fourth day dawned,

And Gaddo threw himself down at my feet.

‘Father,’ he cried, ‘how is it you have scorned

To help me? Is there anything to eat?’

He died then, and, as you see me, I saw

My other three, in two days, dying one

By one, and though I heard them breathe no more

I held them close, and stroked them, while the sun

Came back twice. I kept calling them by name,   90

And felt for them, for I was blind by then.

And then the strength of hunger overcame

Even my grief.” That said, he seized again

Just as before, but with his eyes aslant,

That wretched skull, and how his teeth were strong

You’d have to measure by the way dogs plant

Their fangs in bones. Ah, Pisa! Though the song

Of our word “yes” joins all of Italy

Including you, you still shame all the rest.

Your neighbours for some reason leave you free   100

Of punishment. Here’s how it would be best:

Capraia and Gorgona, out to sea,

Shift in and bar the Arno’s mouth, to drown

Your every soul. Count Ugolino had

The name of selling out and bringing down

Your strongholds, and that fault, I grant, was bad:

But torturing his children, that was worse—

And that was you. Youth made them innocent.

Besides the two I just named in my verse,

Brigata, Uguccione also went   110

Through agony because of you we call

The new Thebes for your barbarous cruelties.

And further on, another tribe were all

Swathed roughly in thick ice but did not freeze

Face downward. They froze face up. Weeping there

Allows no weeping. Pain, trapped in the eyes,

Turns inward to increase itself, for where

The first tears coalesce, they crystallize

Into a visor: underneath the brow

Each cup was full. And though my frozen face   120

Felt nothing, like a callus, still somehow

I felt the wind, and more than just a trace.

“Master,” I said, “What causes this? I thought

All heat down here was quenched.” And he to me:

“Your eyes will soon be able to report

Directly, for the cause you’ll plainly see

That drives the blast.” And from his frozen crust

One of the wretches cried: “O souls so cruel

You roam free in the last pit of despair,

Lift off my brittle veils and break the rule,   130

That I might just a little give release

To the sadness that swells my heart, before

My tears freeze up again. So they will cease

Where they began.” And I to him: “You wish

My help? Then tell me who you are, and should

I fail you, may I go down like a fish

To the bottom of the ice.” He understood,

And spoke. “I am the evil garden’s fruit,

Fra Alberigo, he who called down doom

On his own brother, and his son to boot.   140

I asked for fruit there in the dining room.

That was the sign. Now, here, in this cold tomb,

It’s date for fig: which means that my return

On outlay is far more than I foresaw.”

I said: “You mean you’re dead? I live and learn.”

“My body’s life up there is a closed door

To me,” he said. “This zone that gathers in

The treacherous to guests—and so is named

For Ptolemy, exemplar of that sin—

Is ranked so high that some who have been shamed   150

Come sooner to their fate than Atropos

Determines death. That you might lift the glaze

Of grief from my eyes with less sense of loss,

Know that a soul like mine, when it betrays,

Loses its body to a devil who

Controls it henceforth till its time comes round:

And then, this tank is where the soul comes to,

Falling headlong. The body might be found

Above of this shade spending winter here

Behind me. You must know. You just came down.   160

Ser Branca d’Oria. And many a year

Has passed since he fell to his cold renown,

Locked in the ice.” “You’re fooling me, I fear,”

I said, “For Branca d’Oria never died.

He eats and drinks, wears clothes, lies down in sleep.”

And he: “Up in the ditch of the black tide,

Where Evil-Claws tend sticky pitch and keep

Watch on the bubbles, they had not yet seen

A sign of Michael Zanche when this shade

Gave up its body to an imp. He’d been   170

In league with a near kinsman. They both made—

With Branca’s father-in-law caught in between—

The mischief, and that other, there, acquired

A devil for his body so his soul

Could come to us. Now do what I desired.

Reach out your hand and make my poor eyes whole.

Open them up.” And I did not, and felt

That it was courtesy to scorn the hopes

Of that man. Let his eyes wait till they melt.

Ah, Genoese, you that know all the ropes   180

Of deep corruption yet know not the first

Thing of good custom, how are you not flung

Out of this world? For right there with the worst

Romagna has to offer I was faced

With one of you who for his deeds is cursed:

In soul, to lie there in the frozen lake—

In body, through the world to walk awake.

CANTO 34

“Vexilla Regis,” said my Leader in

His tongue, “perveneunt inferni.” I

Thus knew the banners of the Prince of Sin

Were near upon us. Virgil: “Therefore try

To look ahead. See if you can discern

The Evil One.” As when thick fog or night

Comes to our hemisphere and we see turn

A windmill in the distance, such a sight

I seemed to see, a structure of that kind.

Then, for the wind, and lacking barricades   10

Against its brute force, I drew back behind

My Guide. I was already where the shades—

It is with fear I set this down in rhymes—

Were wholly covered, and showed through the ice

Like straws in glass, and there, a thousand times

In different ways, they all paid the same price.

Some lay down either way, some were erect,

With either head or feet up. Some were bows

Bent face to feet. Deep down, I could detect,

Were more, and off to either side, who knows?   20

When we’d gone far enough that my Guide thought

It good to show me him who once was fair,

The brightest of the Seraphim who fought

Michael in Heaven, Virgil moved aside

From just in front of me and made me halt.

“Behold Dis, and the sad place,” said my Guide,

“Where your resolve must be without a fault.”

Reader, don’t ask how chill and faint I turned:

I couldn’t write it. All the words would fail.

I didn’t die, but couldn’t live. I learned   30

What living death and death-in-life entail.

But you must ponder, if you have the wit,

What I, denied both life and death, became.

The evil Emperor stood forth in his pit

From his mid-chest on up, and just the same

Or worse as my arm to a giant’s arm,

A giant’s arm to his compares, so think

How huge his whole capacity for harm

Must be. His mighty strength gives you the link

Between his two lives. If his beauty was   40

A match for all the foulness he has now,

We see that all our sorrow came because

He set his face against his Maker. How

Miraculous it seemed, what I now saw.

He had three faces: the front one was red,

And on each side of that he had one more,

Each ending at mid-shoulder. Overhead

All three joined at the crown. The right-hand face

Was whitish yellow, and the left-hand one

Recalled in looks the people of that place   50

The Nile comes down from, stared at by the sun.

Between each face two giant wings emerged

Of size to suit so big a head, and sails

At sea I never saw like these. Quite purged

Of feathers, like a bat’s, they beat like flails

To generate the three winds by which all

Cocytus is kept frozen. With six eyes

He wept, and three chins let the foul tears fall,

And bloody foam. Each mouth was of a size

To take a sinner, torn up by the teeth   60

As with a harrow, and worse were the claws

That stripped their backs to show the bones beneath.

“The soul up there most punished, and for cause,

Is Judas,” said my Guide. “With just his legs

He signals pain. His head is not on show.

We do not see or hear the way he begs

For that same mercy he did not bestow.

And of the other two with heads outside

That triple throat, the noble one that hangs

From the black face is Brutus, once the pride   70

Of Rome. But now his words, pierced by those fangs,

Are lost. And there’s his fellow regicide,

Cassius. So they expiate their crime.

But night ascends again. We ought to move,

For we have seen all, and we’re short of time.

This journey took time even to approve.”

Just as he wished, I clasped him round the neck.

He watched his chance of time and place and when

Those wings were spread he left the icy deck

And caught hold of the furry flank, and then,   80

From tuft to tuft between the matted hair

And frozen crusts, went down. When we had found

The thigh’s turn, at the swelling haunch, just there,

My Leader strained to bring his head around

To where his legs had been, and caught the fur

Like someone climbing up. I thought for one

Bad moment we’d be back to where we were,

In Hell. “Hold on,” he panted as if done,

“From so much evil we need stairs like these

To get away.” And he passed through the cleft   90

Of a great rock, just squeezing by degrees,

And sat me on the edge, where I was left

To wait until his cautious step reached out.

I raised my eyes to Satan. There he was,

As he had been, but he was turned about,

Legs upward. If I was perplexed, I pause

To let the dull decide, who do not guess

The point that I had passed. (The central knot

Of this world: there, I’ve said it.) Saying less,

My Master, thus: “Get up, for we have got   100

A long, hard road to go, and yet the first

Hour after sunrise is exhausted.” This

Place was a dungeon carved when crushed cliffs burst.

No palace hall, it had floors you could miss

Your footing on if light were not the worst,

And yet it swayed me to analysis.

“Master, before I extricate myself

From this abyss,” I said as I arose,

“I have perplexities still on the shelf.

Clear them a little. Here’s one case to close:   110

Where is the ice? And how did he get fixed

Heels over head? How is it sunlight flies

Without a pause, as if the two were mixed,

Unhindered between sunset and sunrise?”

And he to me: “You think you linger yet

On the far side of the centre, where I took

Hold of the pelt of him you can’t forget,

That evil worm who pierces with his nook

The middle of the world. But just so long

As I descended, you were on that side,   120

And when I turned, you passed where all weights throng

Together, drawn from all parts by the tide

Of heaviness, and now you are below

The hemisphere opposed to that which swathes

The great dry land, whose zenith, as we know,

Shines on Jerusalem, and therefore bathes

The hill where that Man who was born to live

Without a single sin was brought to die

For all of you. There’s none he can’t forgive

Except us who were born too soon. But try   130

To think of where you are now as a sphere:

A little sphere you stand on, the reverse

Face of Judecca. When it’s morning here

It’s evening there, and him that we so curse,

Whose hair we made a ladder of, is still

Fixed as he was. On this side he fell down

From Heaven, and the land which used to fill

This space, before the sea came in to drown

The whole lot, chose the sea to make a veil

For fear of him, and came up to our sky:   140

Perhaps to flee from him, all here turned tail

And rushed up, leaving emptiness. That’s why

This Hell-hole parallels on such a scale

A mountain you will soon see.” Down there is

A place set at the far end of the tomb

From where Beelzebub presides in his

Grim glory, a place known from the long boom,

Not for the sight, of that stream which descends

Through rock worn hollow by its winding course

And gentle slope. And here the journey ends   150

Through Hell, where that sad flood is a spent force—

Which later on, as Lethe, makes amends.

My Guide and I were on the hidden road

That leads back out to where the world is bright.

No need for rest. We bore an easy load:

The task of getting back to the sweet light.

And up we went, he first, I second, to

The point where I could see an opening.

And it was there I saw, when I looked through,

A sight more wonderful than anything—   160

Some of the loveliness revealed to men

By Heaven. We could see the stars again.

BOOK

II

PURGATORY

CANTO 1

More favourable waters now invite

A raising of the sails on the small craft

Of my poetic gift, so she runs light,

Leaving the heavy sea retreating aft

That crushed her prow, but now lies in her wake.

For I will sing now of that second realm

Where souls are purged and so made fit to take

The path to Heaven. As I hold the helm,

O holy Muses, here let poetry

Arise again from death, for I am yours.   10

Bring forth Calliope to be with me

And join, with her sweet voice that Heaven adores,

My song, as once her lilting measures turned

Those mournful girls to magpies when they dared

To taunt her, as from Ovid we have learned.

Poor daughters of Pierus, they despaired

Of pardon, with their earthbound effort spurned—

They sang for Titans, but she made them cry.

The sweet clear tint of sapphire in the east

Gathered to make serene the sweep of sky   20

From zenith to horizon. It released

The gladness in my glance again, for I

Had weathered the dead air that never ceased

To weigh down on my heart, and hurt my eyes.

The comely planet that prompts us to love,

Veiling the school of pretty fish that lies

Each springtime in her train, was there above,

And she made all the east laugh. To the right

I turned, and on the other pole I set

My mind, and saw four stars that were a sight,   30

Seen by the first men, that has never yet

Been seen again. The sky seemed to rejoice

In these four flames. North, you’re a widow, since

You are denied that sight! I made the choice

To take my gaze back from those merry glints

And turned a little to the other pole.

The Wain was gone already, and I saw

Beside me an old man alone, his whole

Aspect deserving of a reverence more

Profound than any owed by any son   40

To any father. His long hair and beard

Were streaked with white; the hair, two streams from one,

Fell on his breast; and on his face appeared

The light of those four holy stars to make

It seem as if he faced the sun. “And who

Are you,” he said, giving his locks a shake,

Those signs of honour, “You that have come through

And fled the eternal prison, even though

The blind stream was against you? Who’s your guide?

Who was the lamp that lit your path to go   50

Free from the deep night that from side to side

Blots out Hell’s valley with perpetual dark?

How are the laws of the abyss defied?

Has Heaven decreed that those who bear the mark

Of doom, the damned, should come to my cliffs now?”

My Leader then with speech and hand and sign

Directed me to reverence, knees and brow,

And then he said: “The idea wasn’t mine

To come here, but a lady came to me

From Heaven, and according to her prayers   60

I gave this living man my company

To help him through the darkness to the stairs.

But since you wish to have it made more plain

How things in actual fact stand with us two,

I can’t deny you. This man, in such pain,

Had still not seen his last hour. It was due:

Folly had brought him near, and almost all

His time was gone. I was, as I said, sent

To save him in the last part of his fall,

And had no way except the way we went   70

To get him out. I showed him first the race

Of guilty shades, and now propose to show

The spirits to him of a different place—

Spirits that in your tutelage, Cato,

May purge themselves. But it would take a book

To tell you how I brought him through to here.

Enough to say that what it really took

Was virtue from above, which still keeps near

To help me give him you, so he may look

And listen. May it please you now to bless   80

His coming. He seeks liberty from vice,

A freedom dear to him, to you no less:

He knows who gives his life as sacrifice

For such a prize. You know it too, for you

In Utica, faced with the cruel defeat

Of your great cause, did what you had to do

And were not bitter, and your flesh will meet

Its true fate on that Day of Judgement when

It will come back in splendour, as you shed

It long ago out there with honour. Men   90

Don’t break eternal laws. This man’s not dead,

And Minos doesn’t bind me. I am of

That circle where your Marcia’s chaste eyes

Now lie, she who still prays with looks of love

That you should hold her, Holy Breast, and prize

Her for your own, as you did up above

When she came back to you. Incline, therefore,

To us, for her sake. Grant us right of way

Through all your seven kingdoms. I’ll be sure

To tell her of your kindness on the day   100

That I return to Limbo, if you deem

It fitting to be spoken of down there.”

“My Marcia so put the very gleam

In my eyes when I once breathed the world’s air

That I did any kindness that she sought.

But now she dwells beyond the Acheron:

She can no longer move me in my thought.

That law was made the moment I was gone

From there. But if this heavenly woman guides

And moves you, as you say she does, there’s no   110

Need of fair words. On high the power resides:

Enough to ask me for her sake. So go,

And bind him with a straight smooth rush to mark

His humble advent, and his face wipe free

Of any dirt. The eyes may not be dark

With fog for anyone called in to see

The first of all the ministers who keep

Watch on the road to Paradise. Around

This little island’s edge, when from the deep

The waves come in and fall, there can be found   120

The rushes that you need. In the soft mud

They grow like nothing else that puts out leaves

Or hardens, though the waves fall with a thud.

But don’t come back this way. This way deceives

By looking easy, but leads back to Hell.

The sun’s up. Take the better road it shows

For going up the mountain. Now farewell.”

He vanished, and without a word I rose

And drew close to my Guide, and fixed my eyes

On him. “Follow my step,” he said. “Let’s turn   130

Around. This plain slopes down to where it lies

Bounded by water.” Dawn began to burn

The morning breeze away, and far away

It lit the trembling sea. We moved across

The lonely plain, as one who goes astray

And, looking for his path, still feels the loss

Until it’s found again. Then, when we came

Into a shaded place where drops of dew,

Safe from the sun, stayed more or less the same,

My Master laid both hands spread in full view   140

On the wet grass. Knowing his purpose, I

Offered my tear-stained cheeks, and he revived

All of the colour underneath the dry

Tears that I cried in Hell. Then we arrived

On a deserted shore that never sees

A man who sails its waters and yet knows

How to return. My Guide, as it might please

Another, girded me. The plant he chose—

Ah, miracle!—so lowly, though thus torn

From where it grew, was instantly reborn.   150

CANTO 2

The horizon whose meridian at its height

Covers Jerusalem had by now been

Reached by the sun, and, step for step, the night

That circles opposite in the unseen

Was climbing from the Ganges with the scales

That it lets fall when dark outlasts the day,

As if the power of its fingers fails

In winter, and it can’t take what they weigh.

So, where I was, the white and rosy pink

Cheeks of the fair Aurora, as her age   10

Increased, were turning orange. Made to think,

We tarried by the sea’s edge at that stage,

As those who seek the road at heart may go

Onward but in their bodies pause. Look there!

Just as, when morning nears, we see the glow

Of Mars, rose-red in the thick misty air

Above the ocean floor and lying low

To decorate the west, so there appeared

To me a light that came across the sea

So fast no flight could match it as it neared.   20

I took my eyes off it to ask my Guide

“What is it?” I looked back to see it loom:

Its size and brightness had both multiplied.

On either side it put forth a white plume.

Two plumes, but were they plumes? And bit by bit

Below them came a third white plume. And still

My Master said no word concerning it,

And what its three white plumes might be, until

The first two unmistakably were wings,

And then, the pilot clear to him at last,   30

He said: “Bend, bend your knees, for this boat brings

The Angel of the Lord! Clasp your hands fast.

From here on you will see such ministers.

See how all human tools are scorned by him.

For him no oars or sails. No, nothing stirs

Or swells except his wings to make him skim

From shore to distant shore. See how he holds

Them raised toward the sky. The air is swept

With everlasting pinions: pleats and folds

Of feathers that will be forever kept   40

Pristine, and never change as even fine

Plumage will always do on Earth.” And as

He came close it was clear he was divine,

For he grew brighter than men’s vision has

The strength to bear, and down I cast my eyes,

And with his fleeting boat he touched the shore,

A boat so quick and light it almost flies

Above the water, which gives way no more

Beneath it than as if it had no weight.

The steersman on the poop-deck stood still now:   50

Stood so his blessedness that was so great

Seemed written on him, and that boat, from bow

To stern, had, sitting in it as it slid

Ashore, more than a thousand spirits. “When

Israel,” they sang in Latin—this they did

With one voice—“out of Egypt came . . .” Right then

They sang it all as written. Then he made

The sign above them of the Holy Cross.

They flung themselves, as if they had obeyed

His order, on the beach. With little loss   60

Of time—as fast as he’d arrived, in fact—

He left. The crowd remaining there seemed new

To this place. They were caught up in the act

Of testing something. As new people do,

They gazed about. And on all sides the sun

Volleyed the day, and Capricorn was chased

With keen-tipped arrows from the zenith. One

And all the new arrivals rose and faced

Towards me, saying: “If you know the way

To reach the mountain, tell us.” Virgil, thus:   70

“You think we know this place? We came today,

Just before you. It’s all as strange to us

As it must be to you. The way we came

Was different, and so bitter, hard and rough

That now the climb before us will seem tame.”

The souls, who had already seen enough

Of how I breathed to know I was alive,

Turned pale with wonder, and as if to see

The bearer of an olive branch arrive

And hear his news they all had rushed headlong   80

Uncaring who got crushed, so one and all

Of these most favoured souls gazed at my face

Transfixed, as if forgetting their first call—

To go and become beautiful. With grace

One came to me, and with such warmth that I

Met his embrace with mine, I was so moved.

Ah, shades! Your looks seem solid, but they lie!

Three times I held him and three times it proved

That I in vain had clasped my hands behind

His back and brought them back to meet my breast.   90

My face displayed the wonder in my mind,

I think, because the shade made manifest

His pleasure in a smile, and then withdrew

As I, to follow him, stepped forward. He

Gently suggested that I stand. I knew

Then who he was, and bade him talk to me

A little while. He said: “As I loved you

When I was mortal, so I love you still

Now I am free, and therefore I remain.

But you, why do you want to climb the hill?”   100

I said: “Casella, only to regain

The place I came from do I take this road.

But now you’re here, how much time have you lost?”

And he to me: “He stays true to his code.

He takes up who he wants—there was no cost

To me—and when he wants. If many times

He has denied me passage, these are just

Decisions on his part, and never crimes.

A righteous will frames his will. What he must,

He does. Nevertheless, for three months now   110

Without fuss he has taken all who would

Embark, and I, well, I had come at last

Down to the Tiber’s mouth, and there I stood

Where water that was fresh turned salt, and he

Gathered me in. For he has set his wing,

Through all this year of Papal Jubilee,

On visiting that river mouth, to bring

Those crowded souls away who do not sink

Down to the Acheron.” And I: “If no

New law forbids you now to even think   120

About the thing you once could not forgo,

If you can still remember and still do

What you once did, make music for a song—

And the very first to set my words was you,

Your songs of love lulled me when I would long

For anything—so may it please you here:

Refresh my soul with music for a while,

For with my body it grew tired from fear

And effort on the road from mile to mile

With nothing lovely to placate the ear.”   130

“Oh love, that speaks,” he then began to sing,

“Speaks in my mind . . .” he went on, and so sweet

Were words and notes together, like one thing,

That still today the song stirs to repeat

Its clear lilt in my memory, lingering,

Always the same and never changing. I,

My Master and those people there with us,

Seemed as content as if, while time went by,

Nothing remained to think of or discuss,

When suddenly the old one cried “What’s this,   140

You laggard spirits? What’s this negligence?

Why the delay? All this is artifice!

Run to the mountain, for your slough prevents

God’s being clear to you. It must be stripped

From you. Yes, you are here to be made clean.”

As doves, collecting when their food is tipped

Where they can get their beaks to it, are seen

To pick up wheat or tares, with little sound

And nothing of their usual show of pride,

But they will leave their food there on the ground   150

If something comes to scare them, for beside

Their new concern, their first concern turns pale,

Just so I saw that troop of fledglings go

Towards the slope, and heard their last notes fail.

They left their song, but did not seem to know

Where to go next, yet had no time to waste—

And we went too, and went with no less haste.

CANTO 3

While they were scattering in their sudden flight

Throughout the plain, I turned my gaze to meet

The mountain, where by reason at its height

We are examined. Think of the defeat

I would have met without my true friend near.

So near I drew, for how would I have fared?

Who else would take me up that hill from here?

And yet he seemed somehow not to be spared

From self-reproach. Ah, pure and dignified

Of conscience, how a tiny fault can sting!   10

When his feet slowed down from the hasty stride

That drains the dignity from anything,

My mind, till then restrained, was newly keen,

And with that wider range I set my face

Towards the hill that from the sea is seen

To rise high in the search for Heaven’s grace.

Behind me and above, the sun flamed red.

Before me, the ground shone around the shape

I made when sunlight stopped at me instead.

I turned to one side with my mouth agape   20

In fear that I been abandoned when

I saw that only I thus turned the ground

To darkness, but my Comfort asked me then:

“Why so distrustful? Have you not yet found

That I am always with you, I, your guide?

Now it is evening where my body lies

With which I cast a shadow. I abide

In Naples, sent there as a treasured prize

From Brindisi to mark the fond esteem

Of great Augustus. If no shadow now   30

Is thrown before me, may its absence seem

No more a marvel to your mind than how

The heavens do not block each other’s rays.

The Force that makes our bodies fit to bear

Torments of heat and cold has secret ways

Of which we cannot hope to be aware,

And he’s a fool who thinks our reason can

Trace all the paths one substance takes in three

Persons, for they are infinite. Mere Man!

The quia, the mere fact, is bound to be   40

What you must be content with, for if you

Had ever been enabled to see All,

Then Mary would have had no need to do

The thing she did, and give birth. You’ll recall

How you have often seen men’s vain desire

That their desire to see things whole—a grief

Eternal—should have leeway to retire.

Not only Plato yearned for that relief

But Aristotle too, and many more.”

And here he bent his brow down, and he fell   50

To silence, looking troubled and unsure.

Meanwhile, the mountain. We saw all too well

The way its foot was a sheer cliff so steep

The nimblest legs could not have been of use.

From Lerici to Turbia, you’d keep

Your feet more easily where, broken loose,

The rock lies wildly strewn, but still presents

A staircase easier than this. “Who knows

Which side to scale the slope on makes more sense,”

My Master said, his steps stayed, “so that those   60

Who have no wings may climb?” And while his face

Was held down, and he pondered the best way,

I gazed up round the rock, and in one place,

There on the left, appeared a whole array

Of souls, who moved towards us, and yet so

Slowly they seemed not to approach. “See there,

Master,” I said, “these ones might let us know

The answer for which you seek everywhere

Within yourself, if you just lift your gaze.”

He did, and with an air of one set free   70

From some weight on his mind, said “Our best way’s

That way, for they come slowly. You must be,

Dear son, firm in your hope.” Those people still

Were at the distance—after we had gone

A thousand paces—that a slinger will

Attain with a good hand, when, hard upon

The high bank’s solid wall they pressed against,

They stood close-packed and still, as men will pause

To look when not yet from their doubt dispensed.

“You that have ended well, souls that with cause   80

May call themselves elect,” declared my Guide,

“By that peace which I do believe awaits

You all, tell me the slope that meets the stride

With favour, for a waste of time frustrates

The wise the most.” As sheep depart the fold

By one and two and three and all the rest

Stand timid, and down to the ground they hold

Their eyes and muzzles, and the first is pressed

From back there by the others if it slows,

Since they all do what it does, and do that   90

Simply and quietly, and not one knows

Quite why, if one stops, all stop, these were at

That same point. Those who led the lucky flock

Came forward, modest, dignified. But when

They saw that on my right I made a block

For light, so that my dark shape walked again

Between me and the cliff, they stopped in shock,

And back a pace they drew, so all who came

Behind, not knowing why they should have done

What everyone in front did, did the same.   100

“Before you ask, let me tell everyone

This is a human body that you see,

By which the sunlight on the ground is split.

Don’t marvel, but believe, that he can’t be

Without the aid of Heaven’s power to pit

Himself against the wall he comes to climb.”

Thus Virgil, and a spokesman for that group

Of worthies said: “For just a little time

Turn back, and then go on before our troop.”

(The hand, reversed, at this point made a sign.)   110

“Whoever you might be, turn, as you go,

Your face, and think if ever you saw mine

Out there.” I turned to him. I tried to know.

I looked. He was fine-featured and fair-haired,

A noble presence, but a blow had cut

One of his eyebrows through. When I had spared

No humble words to tactfully rebut

Any suggestion I had known him, “Look!”

He said, and bared, high on his breast,

A gaping wound. “Behold my open book!   120

Yes, I am Manfred, torn up from my rest

And thrown out of the Church’s lands. Grandson

To Empress Constance. Thus I beg of you,

Visit my lovely daughter when you’ve done

Your time here and go back. Mother of two

Kingdoms, of Sicily and Aragon,

If she has heard another tale, she ought

To hear the truth. When life could not go on,

My body cleft by two strokes, I then thought

To yield myself to Him who freely gives   130

His pardon. Yes, my sins were horrible.

But the healing goodness that forever lives

Has arms so wide they take in all who will

Turn to it. If Cosenza’s bishop, sent

By Clement to hunt me, had rightly read

That page of God that says he whose intent

Is to approach Me shall be housed and fed

And not cast out, then still my body’s bones

Would now, at Benevento’s bridgehead, lie

Under the shelter of those heavy stones   140

Stacked in a cairn. They would be warm and dry.

But now the wind is at them, and the rain

Soaks them, beyond the Kingdom, by the stream

That marks the border: bones brought in disdain,

With tapers quenched. But though the pastors deem

A man heretical, he can’t be lost

To that point where eternal love can’t save

His soul, if hope keeps love free from the frost,

And evergreen. It’s true that if the grave

Opens for one denied the sacraments   150

By Holy Church, he must stand on the sill—

No matter how intensely he repents—

For thirty times the time he set his will

Presumptuously high, if holy prayers

Don’t shrink his sentence. So now, if you can,

Bring gladness to me in my present cares,

By telling the good Constance of the man

Whose soul you saw here, sadly made to wait—

For prayer from elsewhere can unlatch the gate.”

CANTO 4

Let pain or pleasure touch a faculty

Of ours, and soon our soul will concentrate

Entirely on that. It seems to be

Alert to that one power: all others wait.

And this exclusiveness is contrary

To any notion that one soul has been

Brought high above our several souls (for such

Was Plato’s error). That a thing we’ve seen

Or heard can occupy the soul so much,

Time passes and one doesn’t know it—for   10

The faculty attuned to it is one,

And that which holds the whole soul is one more,

The first one bound, the second free to run—

Of this I had experience. This soul,

Manfred, I’d heard and marvelled at, and while

I’d been absorbed, the sun had climbed a whole

Fifty degrees, and, in my usual style,

I hadn’t seen it do so. Then we came

To where the spirits all together cried

“Here’s what you want!” An opening the same   20

In shape, but many times as wide,

The peasant fills with forkfuls of thick thorn

To keep thieves from the grapes when they grow dark.

Our own gap in a hedge we now found torn

Before us in the rock. That was our mark,

Now that the group had left us. You can go

Up to San Leo or down all the way

To Noli or climb where the rock is so

Steep at Bismantova the locals say

The town’s a summit, and all that on foot:   30

But here you had to fly—with the quick wings,

I mean, of great desire, with plumage put

To the high task of following what brings

Us hope, the guidance that for me made light.

We climbed inside the rock. The surface on

Each side pressed close to us. The walls were tight.

The floor was rough, for hands and feet. Upon

All fours, almost, we reached the upper edge

Of the high bank, on the open hillside. “So,

Master,” I said, “Which way?” There on the ledge   40

He said “Not one step back. The way to go

Is up, and close behind me, till some wise

Guide comes for us.” The summit was so high

It went beyond the limits of my eyes.

The slope went up more steeply through the sky

Than a right angle bisected. I was spent

When I spoke thus: “Sweet father, look back here.

Unless you stop, I’m left alone.” He bent

Back down, and said “My son, a place is near

Where you may rest awhile. Just drag yourself   50

As far as there.” He pointed to the rim,

Above, of what soon proved to be a shelf

That ran around the hill. Inspired by him,

I forced myself to clamber the last few

Hard yards behind him till the ground turned flat.

We sat there facing east, from which we two

Had come, as Revelation does, so that

Was probably a help. The shore below

Was where I bent my eyes first. Then I raised

Them to the sun, and marvelled we were so   60

Struck by it from the north. It should have blazed,

In summer, south. The Poet noted well

How stunned I was the chariot of light

Went by in the wrong place. “If it befell,”

He said, “that, parties to this brilliant sight,

Along with the sun’s mirror, were the twins

Castor and Pollux, then that glowing wheel

The Zodiac, whose timeless flight begins

And ends in north and south, you’d now see steal

Still closer to the Bears, unless it quit   70

Its usual path. If you would ponder how

This thing might be, put all your mind to it:

Picture Jerusalem and this hill. Now

Think of them placed on Earth so that they share

Just one horizon, but their hemispheres

Are each their own. Then, in the air,

You’ll see how Phaethon’s highway here appears—

The road he failed on and so sealed his fate—

On this side of the mountain, and Zion

On that. Just think about it. Concentrate.”   80

“Truly,” I said, “Master, my doubts are gone.

I can see clearly now—as never yet,

For lack of wit—that the mid-circle of

Celestial motion, which is always set

Between the sun and winter up above—

The Equator, to use the special name

One science gives it—lies, and you said why,

As north from here as Hebrews saw the same

Straight line move south towards a different day,

On hotter land. But if it pleases you,   90

I’d like to know how far we have to go.

This mountain needs more than my eyes can do

To reach its peak.” And he: “The start below

On this hill’s always hard, but as you climb

Higher, it takes less effort. Therefore, when

It seems so pleasant, in the course of time,

That going up is far less taxing, then—

When the ascent is like a drift downstream

By boat—then you will find the high trail’s end.

There you may rest your weariness. I deem   100

This to be truth. This answer I defend,

And say no more.” As soon as he had said

These words, a voice nearby: “Perhaps before

You get that far you’ll need a seat.” Eyes led

By that sound, we both turned, and there we saw

A great stone we had neither of us seen

Till then. We went there. There were people there

In the shade, resting, as men whose rest has been

Sought out through indolence. One, with an air

Of weariness, his arms around his knees,   110

Sat with his face between them. “My dear lord,”

I said, “Behold, for here are mysteries:

The laziness of this one could afford

Comparison with Sloth, as if she were

His energetic sister.” The soul turned,

Slowly took note of us, and deigned to stir

His face above his thigh, so I discerned

An inch of space between them. “You’re so strong?”

He said. “Go up.” I knew who it must be,

And my fatigued breath, still short from the long   120

Ascent, only for moments hindered me

From going to him. He scarce raised his head

When I reached him. “Have you made out the way

The chariot is driven,” the soul said,

“By the sun past your left shoulder?” His display

Of lazy movement and his few words moved

My lips to smile a little. I began:

“Belacqua, since your future is approved

I do not grieve for you. But if you can

Summon the urge, pray tell me why you sit   130

Just here. Is there an escort you await?

Or are you back to form? Can that be it?

Slow off the mark and always running late?”

And he: “My brother, tell me what’s the use

Of going up. God’s angel at the gate

Would never let me through on an excuse

To meet the torments. First the heavens must

Revolve around me, while I wait outside,

As long as when I lived—and it is just,

Because it was so late I rightly sighed—   140

Unless a helpful prayer should first arise

From some indulgent heart that lives in grace.

A sinner’s pleading scarcely signifies

In Heaven.” Now the Poet took his place

Before me, saying “Come on, use your eyes:

The sun strikes the meridian, and night

Treads on Morocco’s shore and its last light.”

CANTO 5

I had already parted from those shades

And followed in my Leader’s steps, when one

Behind me cried “But look how the light fades!”

He pointed at my walking shadow. “None

Of all the rays shine to his left below.

He seems to bear himself like one alive.”

I turned to see who should be speaking so

And saw them watching, buzzing like a hive,

Amazed at me and at my broken light.

“Why,” said my Guide, “so tangled in the mind?   10

How can you be concerned by what they might

Be murmuring there? Stay with me close behind

And let them talk. Stand like a tower, staunch,

Unshaken at its top by gusts of wind,

For always when a man has thoughts that launch

Themselves one from the next, his mark is pinned

Further away, as one thought drains the force

Out of the other.” So what could I say

Except “I come”? I said it with remorse

And felt my face gain colour in a way   20

That sometimes makes a man fit to receive

A pardon. Meanwhile people walked across

The slope ahead, and sang, as if to grieve,

The Miserere line by line. But loss

Was not their fate, for Mercy, I believe,

Was theirs already, although in the psalm

They went on pleading for it. When they saw

The way I blocked the sun, they changed their calm

Cantata to an “Oh!” long-drawn and raw,

And one of them, the messenger, ran out   30

To meet us, asking “What should you disclose?”

My Guide: “You can go back and be about

Your business straight away of telling those

Who sent you that this man is made of flesh,

And if his shadow stopped them, that should be

Sufficient answer: they need none afresh.

Just do him honour and collect the fee.”

I never saw at nightfall the clear sky

Cloven by kindled vapour in a streak

Of light, nor ever saw the lightning fly   40

Through sunset clouds in August—here I speak

Of things on Earth—to match for sudden speed

The way those two returned above, and when

They reached the rest, they turned, thus to proceed

With them towards us, as a troop of men

Turned into horses given rein might run.

“These souls are many and they come to press

Petitions on us,” said the Poet. “None

Should stop you. Move on. Make your pace no less,

And listen as you go.” “O soul that goes   50

With, for your bliss, the self-same limbs that you

Were born with,” they cried as they came, “Suppose

You slowed your steps a little. If you knew

Any of us before—look hard—you could

Take news of us back yonder. Why go on?

Why don’t you stop? Hear what we say. You should.

For all of us by violence died, far gone

In sin until the last hour, when the blaze

Of Heaven’s light brought understanding. We,

Repenting and forgiving, from life’s ways   60

Emerged into God’s peace. The urge to see

Our benefactor fills our yearning heart.”

And I: “I search your faces thoroughly,

But don’t see one I know. All that apart,

If there is anything, souls born for bliss,

That I can do to please you, by the peace

Which I go seeking from that world to this

With such a guide to follow, I’ll not cease

Striving to get it done.” And one began:

“In your good offices it needs no oath   70

If there be power enough for the will’s plan:

Therefore, before the rest I’m nothing loth

To speak. If ever you should see the land

Lying between Romagna and that held

By Charles—by which I mean, you understand,

All Naples—then I pray you be impelled

By courtesy to beg them in Fano

Good prayers be made for me, so that I may

Purge my grave sins, for I am Jacopo,

Who came from there, but I was far away   80

Near Padua when all my deep wounds poured

My life’s blood, and the sons of Antenor,

Heirs to the Trojan traitor, could afford

No safety to me. He of Este bore

The burden of the crime, if not the sword.

He hated me beyond the bounds of law,

Yet if towards La Mira I had turned

My flight, after his horsemen tracked me down

At Oriaco, then I might have spurned

My fate, and taken refuge in that town   90

And still be up there, breathing. But I ran

Into the marsh. Trapped by the reeds and mud

I fell full length, the measure of a man,

And saw the spreading pool of my own blood.”

Another spoke: “As I pray your desire

Be satisfied, that draws you to the high

And fruitful hill, just so may I require

Your gracious pity’s helping hand. For I

Was born in Montefeltro: Guido’s son,

Buonconte. Not my wife, Giovanna, no,   100

Nor anybody else, not even one,

Has care for me. And so alone I go,

Even among all these with downcast brow.”

And I to him: “What force, what chance, took you

So far from Campaldino no one now

Knows where your body’s buried? It was true

We beat your Ghibellines, but you, somehow,

Were not among the dead.” And he: “A creek

Below the Casentino’s foot they call

The Archiano. It comes down from the peak   110

Above the Hermitage. For all its fall

The Apennines surround it. To the place

Where that small stream gives up its early name,

With wounded throat and flying foot, a trace

Of dark blood all across the plain, I came.

Then I lost sight and speech. I had the grace

To end by naming Mary as I fell,

And just my flesh remained. But now I would

Say what is true. Make it the truth you tell

Among the living. God in his great good   120

Sent down His Angel, and the one from Hell

Cried ‘You from Heaven, why do you rob me?

You take from me this man’s eternal part

For just one little tear. It’s larceny.

But with his mortal flesh I’ll make a start

On dealing in another way!’ You know

How humid vapour, gathering in the air,

Returns as rainfall when its upward flow

Climbs to the colder realm which holds it there

Until it liquefies, then lets it go?   130

The Prince of Ill-Will has a mind to care

Only for evil, and he moves the cloud

And wind by his peculiar natural force.

So Campaldino’s valley, where a shroud

Of mist, when that sad day had run its course,

Covered the mountains rising from the plain

From Pratomagno to the peaks. The sky

Turned dense, the saturated air made rain:

More water than the earth could nullify

Flooded the ditches, and the rivulets   140

Collected in the streams that fed the great

River that finds the sea. No one forgets

The Arno rules us in a princely state

Even when it’s at peace, but now its source,

The Archiano, rampaged at such a pace

Nothing before it could resist its force.

The torrent found my frozen corpse. Its face

Swallowed me up and swept me on, until

The Arno took apart upon my breast

The cross I made when pain had worked its will   150

And overwhelmed me. All along its banks

And bed the river rolled me. Then it decked

Me with its spoils, and so I owe it thanks

For giving me a grave none can detect.”

The third soul spoke: “When you return into

The world, and rest has eased the price you paid

For this long road, think how I said to you:

Siena made me. What Siena made

Was broken by Maremma. And think who

Said this. I am La Pia, murdered on   160

The orders of my husband; locked away

And dealt with so that he might, with me gone,

Marry again. He’s still up there today.

He knows about it, he who with his jewel

Pledged love, and faith, and wed me, and was cruel.”

CANTO 6

The game of chance breaks up, the loser stays

Behind and grieves. He thinks about his throws

Over and over. In his mind, he plays

Again, sad lesson learned. The winner goes,

And all the rest go with him, one in front;

Another grabs him from behind; one more

Is by his side, a lapdog at the hunt,

Whining “Remember me?” He can’t ignore

Them all, but he does not stop moving while

He listens first to this one and then that,   10

And gives each one his hand and a small smile

So they will fall back satisfied, and at

The right point he is set free from the throng:

He saves himself. So, in that crowd, was I:

I turned my face to them, first here, then there,

And by my promises got free. To die

By violence had been the fate to share

Between these: I could see the Aretine,

A judge, that fierce Ghino di Tacco killed

In open court; the next had fled the scene   20

From Campaldino and his lungs had filled

With water; and there begged with outstretched hands

Federico, a Novello, beaten dead

In battle; that slain youth from Pisan lands

Whose father, good Marzucco, was, instead

Of plotting his revenge, moved to forgive

The murderers. Count Orso I saw, too,

Whose cousin worked it so he should not live;

And that soul severed, if the tale is true,

By spite and envy from its body, not   30

By that crime he was hanged for: yes, Pierre

De la Brosse. May she not say she forgot

That story when she’s here, and find it fair,

The Lady of Brabant, that no worse lot

Than being sent to this flock is her fate.

As soon as I was free of them, whose one

And only prayer, while they were forced to wait,

Was for the prayers of others, thus to run

Sooner to holiness, I said: “To me

It seems, my Light, you took pains to deny   40

Through Palinurus, a divine decree

Is ever bent by prayer, and that was why

He never reached the kingdom of the dead,

Yet these here pray for prayer alone. Will they,

Too, pray in vain, or are those words you said

Something I didn’t take in the right way?”

“My writing’s plain,” he told me, “and the hope

Of these souls is well founded. You just think

With sound mind now as we ascend: the slope

Ends at the height of justice. Will it sink   50

Simply because the fire of love supplies

In one quick flash what each soul here is owed

In satisfaction? What I wrote implies

A prayer was bound to fail that had no road

To God. But such a question is too deep

For you to take a stand on, without first

Hearing from her who in the full great sweep

Of light from mind to faith is so well versed.

I speak of Beatrice. Did I puzzle you?

Above us, on the mountain’s lofty peak,   60

Her smile and ecstasy will fill your view.”

“My lord,” I said as soon as I could speak,

“Can we go faster? I’m less weary now,

And see, the mountain casts a shadow.” “We’ll

Go on with this day’s march,” he said “as much

As light permits. And yet, be sure what’s real

Is far from what you think. Before you touch

The peak above, you’ll see that one return

Who now lies hidden in behind the hill

So you don’t break his beam. But look and learn:   70

See there a soul who sits alone, and will—

He looks towards us—point the quickest route.”

We came to him. Ah, Lombard shade, how high

And mighty was your poise, how absolute

The dignity behind the steely eye

Of your regard! He said no word to us.

He would have let us pass. He only gazed,

A crouching lion. Nothing to discuss.

But Virgil went right up to him and raised

The question of the best ascent. He gave   80

No answer, but inquired of our birthplace

And our condition. “Mantua . . .” my grave

But gentle Guide began. The shade, a case

Till then of total self-involvement, leapt

Towards him, saying “Mantua! Behold

Sordello of your city!” And each swept

The other close as eager arms could fold.

Slave Italy! Hostel of grief! Lost ship

Without a pilot in a storm! No more

Princess of peoples but a swarming tip!   90

A brothel! Think of what you were before

And could have been again! This noble soul

Was so keen, just for his dear city’s name,

To greet its citizen, and now your whole

Country is never free from sword and flame,

And all the living are shut in with wall

And moat, and each enclosure does the same—

Chews at the others. Wretched one, search all

Your seashores, then look deep within

Your breast, and see if any part rejoice   100

In peace. What boots it that Justinian

Gave you the reins of law to guide your choice?

The saddle’s empty, the horse riderless,

Left to itself. If there had never been

A law, there had been less shame to confess,

But you know what restraint was meant to mean,

So your excess is strictly recklessness.

You clergy, who were pledged to be devout,

And should, if you paid God’s instructions heed,

Let Caesar ride the horse, the truth is out:   110

From lack of guidance by his spurs, the steed

Turned vicious, for its bridle, in your hand,

Can only lead astray. Ah, Emperor!

Albert of Saxony, who saw our land

Not even once, and who abandoned her

To be what she’s become, savage and wild!

You that should now bestride her saddle-bow,

Let starry judgement fall on man and child:

Let your successor fear forthcoming woe!

You and your father Rudolph, both held back   120

By greed, have let your Empire’s garden go

To pieces, desolation, ruin, rack.

Come see the Montagues and Capulets

Monaldi, Filippeschi, families ranged

Against each other, those that grace forgets,

Wretched, in dread, because you were estranged,

Having no care. Come, cruel one, come and see

Your nobles in distress and soothe their pain.

You’ll see the level of security

In Santafiora, where Siena’s gain   130

Means loss of land for all those Ghibellines.

Come see your Rome, that, widowed and alone,

Weeps night and day. “Caesar, my lord,” it keens,

“Why aren’t you here with me?” Come see your own,

Your people, how they love each other. Or,

If our plight fails to move your pity, come

For shame of your repute. If it be law

For me, supreme Jehovah—you, the sum

Of all good, who were crucified on Earth

For us—to question you, are your just eyes   140

Turned elsewhere, or do you arrange the birth

In the chasm of your counsel for some guise

Of good we are unable to perceive?

For all our cities here in Italy

Are full of tyrants. Even clowns believe

That playing partisan means they must be

Marcellus, dreaming he made Caesar grieve

By talk against the Empire. You may well,

My Florence, take your ease at this

Digression, which has little truth to tell   150

About you, for your people never miss

A trick in their resource. Others, at heart,

Have justice, but that arrow leaves the bow

Too slowly, for the thought must play its part

Of what the heart means: but your people know

Law only at the tongue’s tip. Others avoid

The weight of office, but your people cry,

Unasked, their eagerness to be employed.

“I’ll bear the burden!” A good reason why

You should be happy, for your cause is good:   160

So rich, and so at peace, and oh so wise.

I speak a truth borne out by facts. Nor could

Athens and Sparta, chosen to devise

The ancient laws and thus be civil, give

One hint beside you of the proper way,

My Florence, that a city ought to live.

You make provisions so fine every day

The threads you spin in one month do not last

To the middle of the next. Can you recall

How often you’ve changed, in your chequered past,   170

Your laws, your money, offices, and all

Your customs? And thrown out your active men

Or brought them back, according to which crew

Is in control of cleaning up the den?

And if you see yourself unblinking, you

See a sick woman who turns seeking rest

On a bed of down, but is no less distressed.

CANTO 7

After these greetings, proud yet high of heart,

Had been repeated three times and once more,

Sordello drew back. When they stood apart

He said “But who are you?” Virgil: “Before

Souls worthy of the climb to God came here

To this hill, my dead bones were buried by

Augustus. I am Virgil. For that mere

Defect—lack of the faith that I could not

Have had, because a child was not yet born—

I lost Heaven.” So spoke Virgil of his lot.   10

As one who marvels at the sudden dawn

Before him of a thing he both believes

And disbelieves, and says ‘It is . . . and yet

It isn’t . . .’ and then finally retrieves

His power to move, Sordello with bent head

Again went humbly to my lord, embraced

Him low down as the lowly do, and said

“O Glory of the Latins, you that graced

Our tongue and proved its power to the Earth,

What deed of mine or blessing shows me you?   20

Honour eternal for my place of birth!

If I deserve your words, tell me what’s true:

You came from Hell? Which cloister?” Virgil then:

“Through all that kingdom’s circles of regret

I have come here. But it was only when

The power of Heaven helped, that I could set

My aim this high. It’s not that I did wrong,

But I did nothing, and so lost the sight

Of that high Holy Sun for which you long,

And I knew of too late. Out of the light,   30

Below, there is a place where sadness lies

In darkness, not in torment; where laments

Are never cries of pain but only sighs.

There I abide with little innocents,

Seized by death’s fangs before they reached the prize

Of baptism, and so they were not free

Of human guilt; and also I abide

With all those souls who aren’t clad by the three

Virtues called holy, but set sin aside

Through following the other four. Yet we   40

Would hear from you—if you know and may say—

Directions by which we might quickly climb

To where true Purgatory begins. Which way?”

Sordello said “But now you’re pressed for time.

For us here, no unchanging place is set.

I may go up and round. I’ll go as far

With you as I’m allowed, but not quite yet.

See how the day declines. From where you are,

To go by night up higher can’t be done.

It’s time to find a refuge. See these shades   50

Here on the right, apart from everyone?

If you consent, before the last light fades,

I’ll bring you to them. They’ll be overjoyed

To meet you.” Virgil answered: “How is that?

Does that mean someone who climbed in the void

Of night would miss what he was aiming at

Because of some external force, or would

He just lack strength?” “You should not cross this line

After the sun is gone.” So said the good

Sordello, and with his finger made the sign   60

There on the ground. “Though be it understood,

There’s nothing else to hinder your ascent

Except the dark that tangles up your will

With helplessness. You even might have meant

To go back down, yet wander round the hill

For all the time the sun is locked out by

The dark horizon.” And my lord, as though

In thought, said “Lead us there, where we may lie

At ease as you have said.” And it was so:

We’d gone a little way, when I saw how   70

The mountain’s face was scooped out, just as though

A valley pierced a mountain here and now.

“We’ll go there,” said the shade, “where that slope makes

A shelter, and await the sun’s return.”

A level, winding path with sudden breaks

Of steepness, brought us where, we would soon learn,

The dell’s wall at half height looked down upon

A garden. Gold, fine silver, cochineal,

White lead, and indigo spread so it shone

Both bright and clear, and emerald with the seal   80

Of its hard skin split, all these were outsoared

In colour by the grass and flowers there

Foregathered on the valley floor, greensward

Ablaze with pigments. Nor did the soft air

Fall short of this parade of nature’s tints:

A thousand perfumes, each sweet on its own,

Made one, a blend that I have not known since—

Nor, to men living, was it ever known.

From where I was I saw, on that bright green

Among the flowers, spirits that sang the last   90

Hymn of the day, by which, of course, I mean

Salve Regina. Beyond the valley’s rim

They were unseen. “Soon now the sun will sink,

And find its nest,” the Mantuan began

Who had directed us. “Yet do not think

Before it does, to ask me if I can

Lead you among them there. But from this bank

You’ll see each face and movement better than

If you were down there with them. Highest rank,

And therefore highest seat, goes to that one   100

Who has the look of letting duty lapse.

See how his lips are still, while there are none

But him who do not sing. And he, perhaps—

Rudolph the Emperor—he might have healed

The wounds that have slain Italy. Too late

For someone else to save her. Her fate’s sealed.

That other one, who seems to comfort him,

Rules where the waters spring that the Moldau

Brings to the Elbe, fills it to the brim,

And the Elbe takes them to the sea. Where now   110

Reigns Wenceslas, there once reigned Ottokar,

His father, who in swaddling bands was worth

More than his bearded wanton son by far.

And he whose nose is of small height and girth,

So cheek by jowl with him of the fair face,

The first is Philip, third king of that name,

Who led the fleur-de-lis to great disgrace,

And died of shame and heartbreak. A sad fame

To have. No wonder here he beats his breast.

And see the other one, who lays his cheek   120

Upon his hand and sighs, more than the rest:

Henry the Fat, King of Navarre. We seek

In those two the twin fathers of the pest

Of France, Philip IV, hard to forgive;

He sent the papacy to Avignon.

The foul and vicious way he chose to live

They both know, and the grief is never gone,

But like a lance it pierces them. And he

So strong and handsome, wore a belt of strands

One each for all the virtues, proud to be   130

Peter of Aragon. Beside him stands

Charles of Anjou (that long-nosed one, you see?):

A vicious streak, but still the first great Guelph.

And if the youth who sits behind him had

Reigned longer after than the man himself,

His virtue, all the good and nothing bad,

Might well have passed from one cup to the next.

But Peter died before his father. Nor

Were all those other heirs of his less vexed:

James, who had ruled in Sicily before   140

He did in Aragon, and Frederick, who

Took Sicily, each has his realm, but not

A better heritage. Those times are few

That human worth hangs on to what it’s got

While rising through the branches. This holds true

Because who gives it wills it must be sought

From Him. I speak of that one with the nose

Not less than Peter. To them both, that thought

Applies. Apulia is in the throes

Of pain. So is Proenza. There was need,   150

From Charles to Charles, of a maintained process.

The plant was so much stronger than the seed,

The second to the first was that much less

In force than Peter to the second. See

Henry of England sitting there alone

Who ruled his life with pure simplicity,

He fathered one who did well on his own:

Edward, that brave boy. He that sits most low

Among them, on the ground, and with raised eyes,

Is Marquis William Longsword, whom we know   160

Lived in a cage, held as a human prize

By Alessandria, and died, and so

Let loose the war, and Monferrato weeps

And Canavese: war that never sleeps.

CANTO 8

Now was the hour that longing turns around,

For sailors, towards what they left behind;

The hour that melts their hearts when, outward bound

For just one day, the last light brings to mind

That they have said goodbye to dearest friends;

The hour that pierces the new pilgrim deep

With love, if he should hear what the bell sends

From far away, the sound of chimes that weep

In mourning for the dying day. It ends

In sadness, and I started not to hear   10

Sordello, as a soul had caught my eye

Who’d risen and made signs to catch my ear.

He lifted his joined palms, stared at the sky

Eastward, and seemed to say “Nothing I care

For anything but that.” A Latin phrase,

Te lucis ante, floated on the air:

The prayer at nightfall. Such sweet interplay

Of notes came from his lips, and so devout,

That I was taken from myself, and then

They all joined in, and sang the hymn throughout,   20

Sweetly and piously, and once again

They eyed the starry wheels of the divine.

Now look with sharpened eye towards what’s true,

Reader, for surely here the veil’s so fine

That going in is scarcely hard to do.

I saw that noble host, without a sign

Or word, pallid and humbled, look on high

As if in expectation, and I saw

Appear above and come down from the sky

Two angels, and the flaming swords they bore   30

Were broken short, without points. Garments green

As leaves born just a breath ago they wore,

Trailing behind them. These clothes could be seen

To fluctuate, made airy by their wings.

One stopped and took his stand a little bit

Above us, and the other varied things

By landing on the far bank, thus to fit

The company between them. Their blond hair

Was plain to see. Their faces, though, left me

Bedazzled, since no faculty can bear   40

Excess. “Both angels are the progeny

Of Mary’s bosom,” said Sordello. “They

Keep watch here on the valley, for the snakes

Will shortly come.” Not knowing quite which way

To turn, I turned around, chilled with the shakes,

And sought the trusty shoulder. “Now let’s go,”

Sordello said, “down there into the dell

And hear what those shades have to say. I know

To see you walk alive will please them well.”

Only three paces downward, I believe,   50

Brought me below, and I saw one who stared

At me as if, albeit looks deceive,

He might have known me. Now the light so fared

That the air already darkened, yet night’s gain

Was not our loss. What was shut off before

Between his eyes and mine was now made plain.

We stepped towards each other then, and more

Delighted I could not have been. What pain,

Noble Judge Nino, had you, being dead,

Been guilty too! But you were here. Between   60

Us two were no fine greetings left unsaid,

And then he asked: “And how long has it been

Since you sailed on the distant seas that led

To this high mountain road?” “The way I came,”

I said, “was through the sad realm, and it was

This morning, from the first life. All the same,

I hope to gain the second life, because

This leads to that.” Judge Nino, having heard

These thoughts, drew, like Sordello, a step back,

As men, bewildered by a sudden word,   70

Who strive to find the clarity they lack.

One turned to Virgil, and the other turned

To someone seated there, and “Conrad, rise!”

He cried, “Come see what we have learned

God’s grace has willed! Stand up and feast your eyes!”

To me, then: “By those special thanks you owe

To Him who keeps the purpose of his will

So secret no one can completely know

Its nature, there’s a task you should fulfil:

When you return across the wide waves, show   80

Giovanna, my dead daughter, where to plead

My case, for heed is paid to innocence

In Heaven. Her poor mother now, indeed,

No longer brings, I fear, to my defence,

Much love for me. She gave up the white veil

Of widowhood, which she must now regret

In misery. She shows us it must fail,

The force of love, and women will forget

In time, unless the flames by sight and touch

Are kept alert. The viper of Milan   90

Which leads their troops afield won’t do as much

To make so fair a tomb as I began

To do with my device, which was the proud

Cock of Gallura. Were we man to man

As one Visconti to another, bowed

Would that one be, and she would love me yet.”

He spoke like that, and as he did, his face

With that invariable will was set

Which burns first in the heart, and earns its place

Through piety. Meanwhile, my greedy glance   100

Kept going to the sky just where the wheel

Of stars slows, as spokes near the axle dance

A stately measure. Virgil: “Son, why steal

So many looks up there?” I seized the chance

To have my question answered. “What are those

Three torches I see flaming at the pole?”

And he: “These three shine here at the day’s close

Where those four shone this morning, but their role

Is different. Supernatural virtues these

Betoken, while the others on the whole   110

Stand for the best of earthly qualities.”

While Virgil spoke, Sordello reached for him

And held him, saying “Look! Our enemy!”

Pointing a path into the air grown dim.

And where the dell had no wall, we could see

A snake, such as, perhaps, gave Eve the food,

The bitter fruit. Through flowers and grass it slid,

The vile streak, and it had the attitude—

Turning it head as often as it did

And licking its own back—of some smug beast   120

That preens itself. I didn’t see just how—

So can’t say here, though I can hint, at least—

The holy falcons set out, but they now

Both plainly flew across the lesser light.

The serpent heard their green wings cleave the air

And turned and fled back to its nest, the night.

The angels then regained their posts, a pair

Of hunting birds abreast. Meanwhile, the shade

Close to the judge since he was called, did not

One single moment shift his gaze. It stayed   130

On me. “So may it prove that you have got

In your free will enough wax for the fuel

The lantern needs to light you to the peak,

The enamelled summit,” he began, “the rule

Is, if you bring the news with you, then speak

To me of Valdimagra or the land

Nearby, for there I once was very great—

I, Conrad Malaspina. Understand:

Not the old Conrad who built our estate

Beside the sea, but nephew to him, and   140

That loving care I lavished on my kin

Is here refined to proper love, of God.”

“I never came to where your lands begin,”

I said, “The earth you owned I never trod,

But who in Europe knows not the renown

Of you and yours? Your honoured family name

Exalts your lords and holdings with a crown.

Those who were never there revere your fame.

But now you’re here, and I can swear to you—

As one who hopes indeed to go above—   150

Your honoured line, whatever it might do,

Will never throw away the praise and love

Brought by its liberal purse and skilful sword.

Nature and practice will take turns to bring

Such privilege when they’re in close accord,

The guilty head in Rome can’t change a thing.

Although he turn the world awry, your line

Goes straight, alone, and scorns the evil path.”

And he: “True, true. That very thought is mine,

And seven years will bring an aftermath.   160

Scarcely so often will the sun return

To rest in that bed which the Ram bestrides

With all of its four feet, before you learn

Such kind opinions can be nailed inside

Your brain by sharper nails than men can talk,

Driven by power far beyond men’s pride.

Unless God’s wishes can be held in balk,

You will be there to see a sweet release

From agony. My family will make peace.”

CANTO 9

In Italy the dawn, once mistress of

Worn-out Tithonus, whitened with its light

The window of the east, and from her love

Drew free. The gems on her sweet brow were bright,

Set in the form of that cold little beast

The scorpion, that stings men with its tail.

And here, the night, in step with that increased

Illumination, set out on its trail

Into the dark. Two climbing steps it made,

And almost on the third had closed its wings,   10

So it was nine at night. In me had stayed

Something of Adam’s human weight, that brings

The need for sleep. Exhausted, I stretched out

Where five of us were seated on the grass,

And there I dreamed, and that dream was about

The hour near morning when the swallows pass

Their time in plaintive song—the memory,

Perhaps, of Philomela’s ancient woe—

And when our minds, from mortal weight set free,

And mortal thought, in that state seem to know   20

The future like the past, so what we see

Looks like a vision of the not yet so.

I seemed to see an eagle gliding high

And poised, with feathers gold, and open wings

To plummet in a moment from the sky.

And I was at the place that Ovid sings—

My Virgil sang it too—where Ganymede,

Lost to his hunting friends, was taken up

By Jove—who took an eagle’s shape and speed—

And rode the clouds, with all the gods to sup   30

And sit in council. For myself, I thought

Perhaps it strikes here only, and disdains

To use its mighty claws for the transport

Of anyone from elsewhere. For my pains

I was rewarded when I saw the bird

First wheel awhile before it fell my way

As frightful as the lightning. In a word,

Upon the instant I became its prey,

And up I went to meet the fire between

Earth and the moon, and there, it seemed, we burned   40

Together, and the flames that I had seen

Only in sleep so scorched me that they turned

Me out of bed, awake as I had been

Before I slept. Just as Achilles sprang

Awake after his mother, as he slept,

Transferred him—and of all this, Statius sang—

From Chiron’s care to Skyros while she kept

Him in her arms, until, from there, the Greeks

Won him away, so I was startled too.

Sleep fled, and I felt, in my ice-cold cheeks,   50

The colour fade, which it is bound to do

In any face that feels fear. There alone

Beside me was my Comfort, and the sun,

Already two hours high, was on its own

Beyond its star companions. Night was done.

My gaze turned to the sea. “Now have no fear,”

My Leader said, “Take heart, for it bodes well

For us. Renew your strength, for you are near

To Purgatory, and there is how you tell:

That rampart rings it in. So now we’re here.   60

And there’s the entrance, where the mound looks split.

Not long ago, at dawn before the day

When your soul, on the flowers by which is lit

The place below, still slept, there came your way

A lady who said ‘I am Lucy. Let

Me take this man that sleeps, so I can speed

Him on his road.’ Sordello lingered yet,

With all the noble souls, and her first deed

Was taking you, and when the daylight shone

She took you up. I followed, till she put   70

You down, here, but her eyes first fixed upon

This opened entrance. Then she turned her foot

And she and sleep together were soon gone.”

As those in doubt, when reassured, may find,

Through truth, that fear is turned to confidence,

So I was changed. My Guide saw how my mind

Was free from care, my face no longer tense.

He climbed the mound. I tagged along behind.

Towards the summit. Reader, you see how

I rise to a high theme. Don’t wonder, then,   80

If I should elevate my manner now

With stronger rhymes and figures from my pen

As intricate as fancy may allow.

We drew near, and came to a point from which,

Where first I thought I saw only a gap

As if a dam were broken by a ditch,

I saw a gate, and that gate was the cap

For three steps leading up to it, each rich

With colour, and a porter, who said naught

As yet, and as I stared at him intent   90

Where he sat on the topmost step, I caught

The full force of his face, the way it sent

More light to me than I could bear the thought

Of feeling further on my eyes. A sword

Was naked in his hand, fit to reflect

The rays on us so I could not afford

One long look, but was driven to collect

The merest glimpses of its untoward

Brilliance. “From where you are, say what you seek,

And on whose warrant. See that your long climb   100

Be not to your harm. Name your sponsor. Speak.

Or do I look as if I’m made of time?”

“A woman from the sky, who is astute

In all these things,” my Master answered, “said

To us just now ‘You must be resolute:

Go that way. It’s the gate. Just go ahead.’ ”

“And may she guide your footsteps on the route

To good,” the courteous warder added. “So,

Come forward to our stairs.” And we approached.

The first step was white marble with the glow   110

Of clarity, and smooth: no blur encroached.

I saw in it the face that best I know.

The second, darkest purple, burnt and rough:

A stone split lengthways and across. The third,

That weighed down from the top, looked near enough

To porphyry, yet flamed and swam and stirred

Like red blood spurting from a vein. On this

God’s angel rested both his feet, then sat

Upon the threshold, which analysis

By eye alone said must have been a flat   120

Wide slice of adamant, without a flaw.

Up these three steps (Step One meant the first stage

Of penitence: contrition. By that law,

Step Two betokened the next shining page,

Confession; and Step Three, a true remorse—

The end point of regret’s hard pilgrimage)

My Leader drew me with the holy force

Of his goodwill. “Now bid him that the bolt

Should be withdrawn, which is his given task:

But do it humbly.” Those feet without fault   130

I threw myself in front of, there to ask

Devoutly that he open up, but first

I smote my breast three times. Then seven Ps

He traced across my brow with that sunburst

He called a sword, while I was on my knees.

“You’re in,” he said. “Try not to think the worst:

These wounds wash off.” Cold ash, or earth dug dry,

Would match his raiment, out of which he drew

Two keys—one gold, one silver—to apply

(First one, the white, and then the yellow) to   140

The door so I could be content. “When one

Of these keys fails to open up the lock,”

He told us both, “the vital thing’s not done:

The passage stays shut, solid as a rock.

One cost more, but the other one demands

More skill and wisdom if it is to move

The lock’s wards, for it’s he who understands

Who solves the knot. Mere doctrine may not prove

Sufficient. They were Peter’s, and he bade

Me err through opening, not keeping closed—   150

So long as longing souls continue glad

To throw themselves, the way that they’re supposed

To do, at my feet.” Then he pushed the door

Of the hallowed gateway open. “Enter. But

You have to look,” he said, “always before—

Look back and you will find the door swung shut,

With you outside again.” Each single hinge

Belonging to that heaving, booming mass

Of metal door creaked fit to bring a cringe

Of shame to Rome’s great rock that cried “Alas!”   160

The Tarpeian, that treasure house, roared less,

Nor showed itself more stubborn when the good

Metellus lost it by the ruthlessness

Of Caesar, and its groaning gate withstood

A legion, then gave way to the excess

Of force, and then that strong box was laid bare.

But this held treasure of a different kind.

“Te deum.” The sweet notes hung in the air.

“Te deum laudamus.” They touched my mind,

Those voices, and perhaps they started there.   170

I heard the same thing that we sometimes find

When human song and organ sound are joined,

And now the words are blurred, and now new-coined.

CANTO 10

When we were in the threshold of the gate

So rarely used because of misused love—

The fault that makes the crooked way look straight—

I heard it boom shut. Would I be excused,

I thought, if I should turn my eyes to it?

We climbed though a rock’s cleft which turned one way

And then the other in a manner fit

For waves, that flood and flee but never stay.

“Here it would suit to use a little art

And alternate the side we fasten to,   10

Since each moves close before it draws apart.”

So said my Guide about what we should do.

It made our steps so small the waning moon

Was back in bed and sinking into sleep

Before we left the needle’s eye. But soon

Upon that, in the open, where the steep

Mountain draws back, we found our freedom. I

Was weary and we both lacked certainty

As to the way. We stopped, to get the lie

Of the land, on a place that looked to be   20

As flat and lonely as a desert track

Edged by the void, walled by the mountain’s face.

In width it was a man laid on his back

Three times across. When I searched into space

As far as my keen eye could make its flight,

The terrace seemed to me to be the same:

Now on the left hand and now on the right,

No variation worthy of the name.

Our feet had not yet moved when I perceived

The curving wall, impossible to climb,   30

Was made of a white marble unrelieved

Except by carvings, calling up the time

Of Polycletus, though they would have shamed

Nature as well as him. The angel who

Came down to tell mankind—which had been blamed

For Adam—that there would be peace anew

And Heaven open now, had not been named

As Gabriel, but you could tell that there

He was, and carved so truly for his grace

Of attitude, he seemed to speak. One’s ear   40

Heard “Ave” as he praised the lifted face

Of her who turned the key to love supreme,

And in her bearing were the words “Behold

The handmaid of the Lord,” and did not seem

To be, but were, clear as a stamp may mould

A seal in wax. “Let not your eye grow fond

Of these alone.” He had me on that side

Of him that keeps the heart. I looked beyond

The news for Mary, and then took a stride

Past Virgil and drew near to make the bond   50

By eye with what was there. Carved in the same

White marble wall, the cart and oxen drew

The Sacred Ark. Sad Oza won his fame

By touching it, and men learned not to do

What God had not said. But there was no name:

Not his, nor anyone’s. There was no need

For that. Before the Ark appeared a crowd

Of seven choirs. Two senses disagreed:

“They’re silent,” said one, and “They sing aloud,”

The other said, prevailing. Similarly   60

The nose and eye disputed at the smoke

Of incense, for its lavish pungency

Was there and not there, and I smelt it soak

The air yet couldn’t see it. And now he,

The humble psalmist, more and less than king,

Before the blessed vessel, danced his dance,

Swathed merely in a cloth. To hear them sing

And watch the monarch pirouette and prance,

Michal, Saul’s daughter, and the king’s first wife,

Was figured at a window straight above,   70

And clearly she was sad about her life

And scornful at his show of higher love.

Past her I moved to where another tale

Gleamed white, the glorious deed of that great prince

Of Rome whose gift for justice without fail

Moved Gregory to intercede, and since

That day he has a place in Paradise,

And not in Limbo: Trajan. And a poor

Widow was at his bridle, and the price

She paid in grief was seen there to be sore:   80

Her posture and her tears. The place around

The Emperor was trampled by a throng

Of knights—and once again I heard the sound.

The eagles on the gold flags all along

The grand procession felt the wind and flew.

Among all this the widow seemed to say

“Avenge me, Lord, for my dead son. For who

But you can ease my grief?” And he: “Today?

When I return.” And she: “My Lord, when you

Return?” Her grief was urgent. “You might not.”   90

And he: “Then he who takes my place will do

What you request.” And she: “What have you got

Of goodness if another does the good

That you forget?” And he, at last: “You’re right.

Take comfort, for I must do what I should

Before I go. Compassion for your plight

Asks me to stay, and justice orders me.”

Nothing was ever novel in His sight,

And yet He said these wise things visibly—

I mean that you could see the sound—and that   100

Was new to us, because unknown on Earth.

While I took such delight in gazing at

These images of such exceeding worth

In this depiction of humilities

Distinguishing the great, and in the skill

Shown by the Craftsman of that sacred frieze,

My Poet said: “Forget about the hill

For now, and look on this side. See them walk

Towards us, many of them, but with slow

Steps. They will tell us, if we make them talk,   110

The best way to the next stairs. They must know.”

My eyes, content by now with rich new things,

Were quick to turn to him. But, reader, don’t

Imagine I would have you fold your wings

And fall from good resolve so that you won’t

Know how God wants you to repay your debt:

Don’t linger on its form but think of what

Comes next, and that, as bad as things can get,

Beyond the great Last Judgement it’s not got,

And can’t. “Master,” I said, “these that we watch   120

Approaching us don’t seem like people, and

I don’t know what they are, such a hotchpotch

My vision has become.” “Please understand,”

He said, “the grievous nature of their test

Has bent them double, so that even my

Eyesight is barely adequate at best

As to their nature, but you may descry—

If you try hard to pick apart what shows

Beneath their folded form—how each is served

With castigation as he slowly goes,   130

Crushed by the stone that keeps him tightly curved.”

Christians vainglorious! Tired wretches who,

Made sick by the mind’s vision, come to trust

A backward step, is it not clear to you

That we are caterpillars born, and must

Become the angelic butterfly that sails

Defenceless up to judgement? Why does your

Poor mind float so high that it strains and fails,

Since you are half-formed insects and no more,

Nothing but worms? As when a corbel props   140

A roof or ceiling, there is sometimes seen

A figure, breast on knees, whose strangeness stops

The heart of him who sees it, so I’d been

Impressed by these, each one bent more or less

As his sore back had more or less to bear,

And one that looked resigned to his distress

Seemed also, by his weeping, to despair,

Saying “I’m finished” with his will still there.

CANTO 11

“Our Father,” sang the shades in unison,

“Who are in Heaven, where you reign unbound

Except by the great love you place upon

Your first works, the high circles spread around

Your throne like ripples, hallowed be your name

And power by every creature, as is fit

That they give thanks for what remains the same

For ever, your sweet love, the warmth of it.

Your Kingdom, may its peace reach down to us.

If it does not, we may not, left alone,   10

Reach it, no matter how industrious

We are. And as your angels all disown

Their will, and sing hosannas, so let men

Yield their will too. Give us that daily bread

Today, without which he goes back again,

Through bitter desert, who most looked ahead,

And laboured for release and to advance.

As we forgive all those who do us wrong,

Forgive us by your heart, without a glance

Towards our just deserts. And now our song   20

Is not for us: but don’t put to the proof

Men’s doubtful strength against the enemy

Of old. Teach them instead to stand aloof

From him who stirs its evil wrath. Though we

No longer need this, Lord, we ask it for

Those who remain behind us. So we sing

Our Paternoster for ourselves and more.”

And thus beseeching fair wind and strong wing

Not just on their behalf but ours, they went—

Beneath their burden, as we sometimes dream   30

When we sleep badly, each a testament

To different weight of grief—done with their theme,

Their weary way around the terrace, all

Their effort dedicated to the purge

Of the world’s fog. We’d do well to recall

Their soft words, meant to help us, that emerge

Always for love, and ask what should be done

And said by us for them, granted our will

Is good. Thus we might profit many a one,

Washing the stains away they carry still,   40

So they may go, at last made pure and light,

To see the starry wheels. Then Virgil: “Pray,

In order that you soon attain the height

By spread wings lifting you when you will weigh

No more than your desire, which way to take

Is best for a short route to find the stair?

And if there’s more than one stair, for his sake

Who has come with me, and has clothes to wear

Of flesh like Adam’s so one goes to sleep

Watching him climb, although it’s only fair   50

To say he tries hard, which is the least steep?”

It wasn’t clear who spoke up in reply

To what my Guide said, but this was the speech:

“Come with us to the right, where he can try

A passage where a living man may reach

The next stage up. Were I not hindered by

This stone which keeps my neck bowed and ashamed

And makes me hold my face down, I would look

At him who still lives yet has not been named

To see if I know him, and if he took   60

Pity on me for this, my load of pride,

To thank him. I was born in Italy,

A Tuscan. Family, on my father’s side,

Aldobrandesco. I should say that he

Was actually Guglielmo. I don’t know

If his name might have been once known to you?

My forebears’ blood and great deeds made me so

Superb that I forgot how all men grew

To the common taste of milk. As you might know,

I scorned them all, and took my arrogance   70

So far I died from it. The Sienese

Will tell you how. They came to watch me dance

At home in Campagnatico, but fleas

Need time to kill a dog, and in the square

I rode and slew them by the bunch until

One of them got behind me. That day there,

My castle’s children all remember still.

I am Umberto. Pride, ah, would it were

On me alone that it had wrought its ill:

Gladly I would have been sole sufferer.   80

But all my kinsmen it has ravelled in

The same calamity. I bear the load.

You saw humility. Here see the sin

Of lacking it. And so I walk this road

Till God is satisfied. I never did

Any of this among the living. Now

I do it with the dead.” I heard, and hid

My face, and one of them, I don’t know how—

He had not spoken—twisted underneath

His weight, saw me, and watched me all the while   90

He laboured, and he called through gritted teeth,

As I went with them, bending in their style,

Which strains the spine in every little part.

“Aren’t you,” I said, “the pride of Gubbio,

That Oderisi, lauded for the art

That Paris calls Illumination?” “So,”

He said, “they call me, brother. But the palm

Goes to Bologna, where young Franco’s brush

Embellishes the pages with a calm

Intensity of form that makes me blush.   100

To him the honour, of which part is mine,

But no more. While I lived, though, I might well

Have taken on this point a different line,

Unbalanced by my impulse to excel.

But here, for pride like that, we pay the price,

And I would not be here yet, had I failed,

With power to sin, my boastful vice to quell.

I turned to God. Ah, how we are assailed

By empty glory in our skill! How brief

The green life of the leaves, unless an age   110

Of dead wood comes, to put it in relief!

But after Cimabue was the rage,

Make way for Giotto, hard upon his heels,

To dim his fame. And so it is with verse:

One Guido stands up as the other kneels.

It doesn’t mean that Guinizelli’s worse,

It only means that Cavalcanti’s new,

And takes the title, Glory of Our Tongue—

And chances are the poet who will do

The same to him’s already born, and young   120

And strong, and fit to chase him from the nest,

And once again sing what was never sung

Before, with turning head and puffed-up chest.

The world’s noise is the breath of a light breeze

Which goes this way and that and changes name

Only because it changes quarter. Please,

Convince me how you might have the more fame

If you die old than if you died before

You gave up talking baby-talk, and when

A thousand years have passed, which is no more   130

Than one blink to the universe, what then?

The slowest wheeling stars move one degree

From west to east in every hundred years—

The merest moment of eternity—

And fame we measure by our falling tears,

That flow for just a while, and then run dry.

Of him ahead of me who struggles on,

All Tuscany resounded, and now try

To hear a whisper of him. His fame’s gone.

Yes, even in Siena, where he reigned   140

When Florence’s high riders were destroyed.

So full of pride they were, and it was drained,

And now they are like cheap whores, to avoid.

Your fame, it is the colour of the grass

Which comes and goes because what withers it

Is what induces its green tips to pass

Up through the earth.” And I: “I must admit

Your speech makes my heart tremble, and abates

My own swelled head. But who is he of whom

You spoke just now?” “One of the one-time greats,   150

It’s Provenzan Salvani,” he said. “Room

Has here been found for him because he thought

In his presumption to have in his hands

All of Siena, so in pride he fought

And not against pride, until all those lands

Were his, and he has gone thus, without rest,

Since he met death. Such is the coin he pays

In quittance who, back there, would be the best.”

And I: “I’m told the spirit that delays

Too long in life before repenting must   160

Remain outside that door and not ascend

Thus far unless good prayers are paid in trust

For long enough to match, from end to end,

His lifetime, so how comes it he is here?”

“When he was in his prime,” the answer came,

“He chose—and his own shame he did not fear—

Siena’s marketplace to be the frame

In which he stood, a living portrait of

Humility, as ransom for a friend

Rotting in Charles’s gaol. This act of love   170

Was visible as suffering, to rend

The heart. His every vein and sinew shook.

I say no more, and know that what I say

Is dark, but soon your townsmen, who once took

Your part, will send you on a lonely way.

It was his self-abasement brought you through.

The bitter begging-bowl awaits you too.”

CANTO 12

I and that burdened soul, as far as my

Sweet teacher let me, side by side went on

As though we were yoked oxen, brought low by

A load that curved us, all defences gone.

But then my Guide said “Now you must leave these

Behind, and move, for here it would be well,

With sail and oar and all your faculties,

To drive your own boat.” Quickly, truth to tell,

I straightened up my body, though my mind

Stayed bowed and shrunken. Scared of come-what-might,   10

I set out eagerly to stay behind

My Guide, both proving that our steps were light,

And he: “Turn down your eyes. It will be well

For you to make your path a pleasure by

Seeing the flags you tread, the tales they tell.”

As pavement tombs, to call up those who die,

Bear carved designs of what they were before,

For which so often tears are shed by those

Who have the gift of pity, as their store

Of memory is stirred, so there arose   20

From this unyielding and yet living floor,

The same sense of fine craftsmanship, but all

Of more verisimilitude, the whole

Breadth of the roadway from the mountain wall

Out to the edge. More noble in his soul

Than any creature, there see Satan fall

Like lightning from the sky on the one side.

Briareus, on the other, by the spear

Of Heaven pierced, lay heavy, petrified

By chill death. And Apollo, he was here,   30

With Mars and Pallas, all of them still armed,

About their father Jupiter. They gazed

On scattered giant limbs. Nimrod, alarmed

At his own cleverness, as if amazed

By his great babbling tower, stared at the charmed

People of Shinar, likewise proud of it.

Niobe! I saw you with crying eyes

Traced on the road, with company to fit

Your pride—alas, too late to make you wise—

Those fourteen helpless children slain. And you,   40

King Saul, you lay there dead on your own sword

In Gilboa, where never rain or dew

Would come again—abandoned by the Lord

For pride. And sad Arachne, you there too:

I saw you in the wrecked web of your thread,

Already half a spider, wretched, changed

From challenging Minerva. Every shred

Was there, and your new long legs were arranged

To show their bent joints high above your head.

Next, Rehoboam, King of Israel, whose   50

Depiction here seemed not to threaten, since

It fled by chariot as if to lose

Pursuers, but they weren’t there. So that prince

Proved how his father, Solomon, was sage,

By being foolish with his rates of tax,

Goading the usual rumble to a rage.

And that hard pavement showed, as if in wax,

How Alcmaeon once proved that sad pearl string

Was costly to his mother; how his sons

Fell on Sennacherib to kill that king   60

In his own temple. And you’d swear blood runs

Just here, where Tomyris tells Cyrus “Now

The blood you thirsted for is yours to drink,”

She’s talking to his severed head. Somehow,

Above the vat, his eyes appear to blink.

And here was Holofernes being slain,

And all his army of Assyrians

Fleeing in desperate rout across the plain,

Bereft of their proud leader and his plans:

I heard the slaughter, saw the cries of pain.   70

And Troy I saw in ashes. Ilion!

Pride brought your topless towers low, and vile

You were before you caught fire and were gone,

And these designs showed that in stunning style.

What master of the brush or chisel could

Have traced the shapes, incised the outlines there

Which even experts would have thought too good

For words? It seemed as if the living breathed the air,

And all the dead were dead. One who had seen

These actual things could not have seen them more   80

Clearly than I who saw all that had been,

As I went stooping. More now than before,

Chest out, head high and eyes front, sons of Eve!

Never look down to see your evil trail.

More of the mountain than I could believe,

We had encircled. That the sun could sail

So far so fast I’d likewise failed to guess,

Having been too absorbed, when he who gazed

Always ahead said: “Heads up! We have less

Time than you think for ambling round amazed.   90

Here comes an angel, as the time of day

Is marked by the sixth handmaid of the car

That hauls the sun. In flames she breaks away.

Make sure your look and general bearing are

Reverent to meet the herald. Let him be

Pleased to direct us. Days like this can dawn

Just once.” Used to his well-worn homily

That I should not waste time, I was not torn

As to his meaning. The fair creature stepped

Towards us. He was clad in white. His face   100

Trembled, a star at sunrise. His wings swept

Wide with his open arms. “This is the place,”

He said, “that has the steps. From here, ascent

Is easy. Yet few come to meet this call.

You race of men, from birth you all were meant

To fly: how is it you consent to fall

Back down again just for a little bit

Of breeze, a puff of glory?” Then he led

The two of us to where the rock was split.

He struck my forehead with his wings, and said   110

My journey would be safe, he’d vouch for it.

As on the right hand when you climb the hill

To San Miniato there are stairs to break

That long hard pathway steep enough to kill—

Stairs put there by a city that could make

The right decisions, guard its measures, still

Keep records—so the bank that came down there,

Steep from the upper circle, could be climbed

With ease, but still the hefty rock, laid bare

On each side, pressed in close. And then there chimed,   120

As we stepped in between, voices in tones

So sweet—“Blessed are the poor in spirit”—no

Mere words could match. But how these broken stones

Were different from the doors I’d come to know

In Hell, for here the entrance teemed with songs

And there with lamentations! Now as we

Mounted the sacred stairs—and here one longs

For one plain phrase that fits—I seemed to be

Far lighter than I was before. “What weight,”

I asked my Master, “has been shorn from me   130

That I so blithely go up through the gate,

Almost without an effort?” “When that mark

Of P repeated on your brow sixfold—

Which once was seven—has all grown less dark

And disappeared, divine goodwill will hold

Your feet in such a mastery that they

Will find not only ease but sheer delight

In being urged on upward.” Just the way

Those do when something unknown to their sight

Is on their head but they can guess by signs   140

From others that it’s there, and with one hand

They search for it and find it, on those lines,

With my right hand’s spread fingertips I scanned,

And did indeed find, just six times, the trace

Of that rune the keyholder with his brand

Had touched there to my brow, that tender place.

My Leader watched me with a smiling face.

CANTO 13

Now we were on the top step of the stair,

A cutback in the mountain greeted us

A second time: there was a terrace there,

Ringing the hill with lesser radius,

And thus a sharper curve. No shade, all bare,

No carving. Just the blank road and the bank,

The livid stone. “If we should wait to ask,”

The Poet said, “our choice may, to be frank,

Be left too long.” And so he made his task

To stare into the sun, and of his right   10

Side make a pivot, and bring round his left.

“You that I trust on this new road, sweet light,”

He said, “to show us through the warp and weft

Of this place we need guidance in, you give

Warmth to the world to match the light you cast.

Unless Grace argues otherwise, we live

According to your beams from first to last.”

Already, there, we’d gone what we would call

A mile here—made quick by our eager will—

When we heard spirits flying that were all   20

Voices. Unseen they flew to us, to fill

The air around us with their biddings to

Love’s table. And the first voice that flew past

Shouted “They have no wine!” and as it flew

Beyond us cried the same thing, and at last

Was almost out of earshot when the next

Went by us crying “I’m Orestes!” Nor

Did that one stay. “Father,” I said, perplexed,

“What are these voices?” But there was one more.

It said “Love those from whom you’ve suffered wrong!”   30

My Guide: “The sin of envy meets its scourge

In this round, and of that scourge every thong

Flaying that disposition must emerge

From love. And thus the curb that speaks against

The sin must sing the virtue. You will hear

That sound, if I judge right, when we’ve commenced

Our entry to the Pass of Pardon. Near

Us now, if you look straight ahead, you’ll see

People before us, spaced along the cliff.”

With wider eyes I looked in front of me,   40

And there sat shades in cloaks that looked as if

They shared the colour of the stone, and when

We went a little further I heard cries

Of “Mary, pray for us,” of “Michael,” then

Of “Peter” and “All Saints.” Still my mind tries

In vain to think of just one man alive

On Earth today so hard he’d not have been

Transfixed by pity. Nor did I arrive

So near them that their movement could be seen

Without the eyes that saw them being wrung   50

By great grief. A coarse haircloth seemed to wrap

Their figures, and one from the other hung

On proffered shoulders, side by side, no gap,

All propped up by the bank. Just so the blind

And destitute turn up to beg at church

As if they sought indulgence, and you find

Them leaning on each other and you search

Your pockets, moved to pity not just by

Their words but by their looks which plead no less.

And as the blind take, from the sun on high,   60

Small profit, so the light brings no largesse

To these shades in this place I speak of here.

All had their eyelids stitched with iron wire

Like untamed falcons. And it did appear

To me that my effrontery was dire,

Seeing these others while I was unseen.

I turned to my wise Comfort. Well he knew

What my embarrassed silence had to mean,

And said “Speak to the point, but speak up, do.”

As we walked on the terrace past this scene,   70

Virgil was with me at the edge where one

Might fall, for that side had no parapet,

And on my other side I saw tears run,

Bathing the cheeks of those shades I see yet:

Devout shades, but their eyes were ghastly seams

Remorse, from envy, forced their weeping through.

To them I said “The one aim of your dreams,

To see the light on high, will come to you,

You may be sure, and grace will then soon clear

The scum your conscience builds, so that the flow   80

Of memory may run without a smear.

In view of that, pray tell me if you know—

And if you do, I’ll hold the kindness dear—

If anyone Italian is among

Your number. If I’m told, it may be well

For him.” And then I heard someone give tongue.

“Brother, there is a truth you need to tell:

All here are of one city. If there were

Any that lived in Italy, then say

They lived as pilgrims.” This polite demur   90

Came from, I thought, a little up the way,

So that I raised my voice. Among the press

I saw a shade marked by expectancy—

And if you wonder how I came to guess,

It raised its chin the way the blind do. “Be

Frank with me, spirit,” I said. “You that bow

To mount up high, if it was you I heard

Just then, your name and city tell me now.”

“Siena,” she replied, “and, in a word,

I cleanse myself here of my life of sin   100

Like all the others, weeping to Him, that

He give himself to us. Wisdom was in

My name but not in me. My name fell flat,

Sapia, for I rejoiced in others’ hurt

Far more than at my own good luck, and lest

You think that I deceive you, I assert

The truth: that when the arc had passed the crest

Of my years, I was mad already. My

Townsmen were in Val d’Elsa, but the foe

Joined battle with them. And that day, on high,   110

The thing was willed that I had prayed for. So

My nephew and his Ghibelline pigsty

Of suckers-up were hounded down the track

Of bitter flight, and, as I watched the chase,

Gladness beyond bounds seized me. I threw back

My head and aimed at Heaven my bold face,

Crying to God ‘I fear you now no more!’

Just like the blackbird when the sun returned.

Near death, I sought God’s peace, and I’d be sore

Pressed for a lessening—or so I’ve heard   120

It said—of all my debts by penitence

Had Peter the Comb-Seller, holy man

And hermit, not wrapped me in his immense

Mantle of charity. Yes, he began

To put my name in his petitions. Mine!

But who are you that, as he goes, enquires

About us, and, I think I can divine,

Speaks with the breath, whose eyes are free of wires?”

“I, too,” I said, “will lose my eyesight here,

But only for a little. My own sins   130

In envious looks were small. A greater fear

Suspends my soul until it slowly spins:

I mean the grief below. Brought on by pride.

That load is with me as this climb begins.”

And she: “You’re here with us. Who was the guide

That brought you up, if you think to retrace

Your steps?” And I: “He that is with me, who

Does not speak. And I live. Now, by the grace

To which you’ve been elected, spirit, you

Have not yet asked, as others in your place   140

Have done, if, yonder, I can speak and move

On your behalf.” “Ah,” she replied, “so strange

Is this to hear, that it’s enough to prove

God loves you. Somehow, then, you might arrange

To help me with your prayers. You I implore,

By what you crave most, if you ever tread

The soil of Tuscany, that you restore

My name among my kin. You’ll find them spread

Among that vain race who wait for their dream

In Talamone. Yes, our own seaport   150

One day, but now a long and fevered scheme

For losing money, of the self-same sort

As our eternal quest to find the stream

That flows beneath our land. Siena! Sail

On wings of fantasy! How can you fail?”

CANTO 14

“Who’s this, that makes the circuit of our hill

Before death comes to him to grant his flight,

Who shuts his eyes and opens them at will?”

“I don’t know, though I do know to this height

He doesn’t come alone. But you ask first,

Since you are nearest. Make your greeting kind,

That he may speak.” In that way they rehearsed:

Two spirits propped together, of a mind

To talk with us. “Embodied soul,” one said,

“Who heads for Heaven, tap your sympathy:   10

Tell us your name and provenance. We’re led

To marvel not just at the novelty

Of your arrival here, but at the grace

You’re given.” I: “Through central Tuscany

A stream winds, whose beginnings we can trace

To Falterona, for a hundred miles

And more, and on its banks this shape was born.

My name? A man must make a name who styles

Himself by name, and blowing my own horn

Would make no sense, as yet.” And then the shade   20

Who’d spoken first said “If I have the wit

To catch your meaning, by those words you made

Allusion to the Arno.” “Think of it,”

The other chipped in. “Why did he conceal

The river’s name? Such secrecies are fit

For those to whom a horror is too real.”

The shade who’d been addressed said, “I don’t know,

But it is fitting such a valley’s name

Should perish, since for all its rancid flow

From far up in those mountains with the fame   30

Of having given birth to a large part

Even of Sicily—a source that teems

With many waters—with a racing start

Of far more than its share of brooks and streams,

From that source, all the way downhill to where

It gives back to the sea all that the sky

Draws from it so that rivers may be there,

For all the way that river meets the eye

Virtue is held an enemy by all:

A snake to flee from. This could be because   40

Of mischief in the ground, or you might call

The gift a custom, passed on without pause

Through generations, so that those who dwell

In that sad valley are now so debased

In nature, it might seem they might as well

Be Circe’s pigs, pastured on their own waste.

At first, through Casentino, among hogs

Who filthily eat acorns and prefer

That diet to man’s food, through ponds and bogs

It makes its feeble way, and then the spur   50

Of land that bends it brings it to the dogs

That snarl out of Arezzo more than they

Have any right to for their actual power.

From there, in scorn, it turns its snout away

And goes on falling, swelling by the hour.

The more it does, the more does the accursed

And ill-starred ditch find dogs transmogrified

To wolves, at Florence, which should be the worst,

But there is more, because, from either side

Hemmed in, it falls through gorges, down to meet   60

The Pisan foxes: lithe and full of guile,

They know no trap their cunning can’t defeat.

Nor will I, even for a little while,

Stop talking just because this mortal hears:

He ought to bear in mind that what I say

I am inspired to lay forth for your ears

By truth, and I see there will come a day

When your grandson, who hunts the wolves and sends

Them frantic in their fear, will sell their meat

Still living, and for many their life ends   70

In slaughter, like old cattle. It’s complete:

A double robbery. They lose their lives

And he his honour. From the wretched wood

He comes forth bloody, having cut with knives

The trees that will not once more come to good

Inside a hundred years.” As when bad news,

No matter where it comes from, pales the face

Of him who hears, I saw the other lose

Composure as these words sank into place.

The speech of one, the other’s look, made me   80

Eager to know their names, and so with much

Entreaty, I put questions, whereat he

Who spoke to me before said “You, by such

Demands, would have me do for you what you

Do not for me. But seeing that God wills

His grace to shine through you, this I will do

Without a grudge, a servant who fulfils

Your wish. Know, then, I am the Ghibelline

Guido del Duca. So did envy flame

In my blood, that no sooner had I seen   90

A happy man, but colour overcame

My features. I was livid. Here I reap

The straw I sowed. Ah, humans, why this urge

To set your hearts on what no one can keep

Except alone, so you can never merge

In partnership? But my companion here

Is Rinier, great Guelph, pride of the stem

Of Calboli, for none since has come near

Inheriting his worth. But all of them—

Not just his line alone—all have been shorn   100

In the Romagna, of their virtues, real

Or just for show, possessed or merely worn,

For in that land the ground by now, you feel,

Is so full of envenomed shoots, the plough

Would never get them out. But Lizio,

The good and courteous, where is he now?

Pier Traversaro and the kind Guido

Da Prata? And so many others. How

Is it that they are gone? The Romagnoles

Have turned to bastards. Tuscan, don’t be stunned   110

That I should weep for all those noble souls,

The ladies and the knights, the endless fund

Of stories about deeds and sports to which

Love moved us, and good manners. And now think

How hearts are grown malicious and are rich

In nothing but the depths to which they sink.

Ah, Bertinoro! My sweet nest! Where I

Spent years of safety high above lush fields!

How is it you don’t will yourself to die,

When all your finest families and their shields   120

Are fled from the corruption? Better far

Bagnacavallo, where they breed no more.

Both Conio and Castrocaro are

Worse off because the counts spawn as before.

Again, so many others . . . But enough.

Tuscan, go on your way, for now my choice

Is not to talk but weep, so much the stuff

Of our discussion wrings my heart.” His voice

Fell silent. Since we knew they heard us leave,

That they were mute made us more confident   130

Our way was right and it would not deceive.

And then again, as on alone we went,

Another voice, as if a lightning bolt

Should cleave the air, flew into us, and said

The words of Cain acknowledging his fault.

“Whoever finds me, slays me,” and it fled

As thunder, at the sudden cloudburst, dies.

And when our ears had just a moment’s rest,

Another roared as if to split the skies

Like one more thunderclap that closely pressed   140

Upon the first. “I am Aglauros, turned

To stone because my sister had the love

Of Mercury. I envied, and I earned

A place here.” On our way to high above,

I took a step aside, instead of straight

Ahead, so as to have my Guide’s support.

The air by now was in a quiet state

All round, and he: “That stretch, one would have thought,

Was hard enough to hold a man in bounds,

But not you. No, you took the bait. The hook   150

Of your old enemy, his sights and sounds,

Got into you. He reads you like a book,

And then no curb applies or prize appeals.

The heavens call you, whirl about you, show

Their endless beauty. You—and the mind reels

At all the petty stuff you crave to know—

See only the sad business of the Earth.

He smites you, He who knows what that is worth.”

CANTO 15

Evening in Italy, and here, midnight.

The same amount the sun, that always plays

Between its tropics like a child, gains height

From dawn to the third hour, was, in the day’s

Last quarter, left to run, down where you are,

And here the beams struck us full in the face,

For we had gone around the hill so far

We headed straight into the west. The place

And time weighed down my brow more than before

By far, the splendour of it. But the cause   10

Being unknown, I was left dazed, and wore

My hand above my eyebrows without pause,

To temper the excess of light with shade.

As from the water or the mirror rise

All rays at the same angle that is made

When they go down, and so come to our eyes

With undeflected force and do not fade—

As science and experiment have proved—

Just so it seemed to me that I was hit

By such a light that my poor eyesight moved   20

Away at high speed. “Tell me, what is it

That I can’t shield my eyes from, gentle Guide,

And seems to come near?” “Do not be amazed,”

He said, “If Heaven’s household, glorified,

Still dazzles you and leaves you walking dazed.

This is a messenger, who has been sent

To call you to the climb, and very soon

The sight of these will hold no element

Of hardship, but indeed will be a boon:

Delight as great as you are fit to feel.”   30

The blessèd angel, when we reached him, said

With glad voice: “Enter here.” This soft appeal

Was further eased when we began to tread

A stairway less steep than the others. We

Were soon through, and were mounting, when we heard

“The merciful are blessed.” The melody

Was sung behind us, and then, word for word,

“Rejoice, for you have won.” My Guide and I

Ascended by ourselves, and as we walked

I thought to profit from his words. “So why   40

Did that one from Romagna, when he talked

Of ‘owners,’ ‘partners’ and what each can buy,

Think I would understand?” And he: “He knows

The cost of his worst fault, and so it’s not

A wonder he reproaches it, to close

The gap between himself and what he got

From envy: great regret. And as for you,

It is because your wishes are still set

On having more by sharing less, that through

Your heart the sin of envy even yet   50

Can blow its bellows and you sigh: but should

The love of higher things bend up your need

Away from one man’s sense of what is good,

That fear would leave your breast. For it is greed,

And there on high, the more who love the phrase

‘It’s ours’ more than ‘It’s mine,’ the more of worth

Each one possesses, and the more the blaze

Of charity in that court.” I then: “Dearth

Of knowledge deepens. If I’d held my peace

Before, I would have less perplexity.   60

How can it be that each one may increase

His share the more the more there are to be

Given the share?” And he: “Let wonder cease:

Because your mind’s still set on earthly things

You gather shadows from the light. Above,

The good is endless, beyond words. It wings

With all speed in the same way towards love

As sunbeams do to something bright. It gives

Itself the more the more of love it finds.

As charity extends, the more it lives,   70

And all the souls in love up there it binds

Together with more love. Love propagates,

Returning from a mirror. If my speech

Leaves you still hungry, then a feast awaits.

You will see Beatrice, and how she, from each

And every craving that you have, will make

You free. Seek only to expunge the five

Wounds you have left, though doing that will take

A painful healing. Grit your teeth and strive:

Two gone, and five to go.” And when I was   80

About to say “All right. Bring on the day,”

I saw we’d reached the right road, and because

My eye was keen, not one word could I say.

Visions of ecstasy held me enthralled.

A populated temple. At the door,

A woman, sweet-faced like a mother, called:

“My son, how can you do this to us? For

Your father and I seek you, and are sad.”

She said that, then she vanished. There came next

A further woman. On her cheek she had   90

The running waters of somebody vexed

With rancour at another. Fighting mad,

She said: “If you are Lord of Athens, whose

Name brought the gods to battle, and from which

All knowledge shines, then vengeance you should use

On those bold arms that fancied themselves rich

And well enough born to reach out and hold

Our daughter. Pisistratus! Justice calls!”

Her lord, it seemed to me, without being cold,

Was gentle, gracious, tranquil. “If it falls   100

To us to choose, what shall we do to one

That seeks our harm, if we should so condemn

Someone who loves us? Come, can this be done?”

But I saw others, and the case with them

Was otherwise. In wrath they slew a youth

With stones, and they were shouting “Kill! Kill! Kill!”

And down he sank to earth, because, in truth,

Already death weighed down on him, but still

His eyes were gates to Heaven even in

His agony, bidding the Lord bestow   110

A pardon on his killers in their sin,

And by his look you knew it would be so,

For it unlocked compassion. When my soul

From just itself came back to what was real

Outside of it, existence as a whole,

I saw that these dreams had been sent to deal

With things in my mind. And my Guide, aware

That I was fighting my way free from sleep,

Said “What’s wrong? Have you come back? Are you there?

For half a league or more I watched you keep   120

Upright with difficulty, your eyes veiled,

Your feet adrift as if fatigue or wine

Or both befuddled you.” And thus assailed,

I said “Kind father, such fault was not mine.

Listen, and I will tell you why I failed

To keep my feet. I saw something. But what?”

And he: “Had you a hundred marks upon

Your forehead, still your faintest thoughts would not

Be hidden from me. What you saw, now gone,

Was shown to you so you would not neglect,   130

From lethargy, to open up your heart

Before those peaceful waters that collect

First in the fountain where they have their start

And then pour forth eternally. Nor did

I ask what ailed you as one asks who sees,

Unseeing, someone lifeless, lying rid

Of all signs, but I asked it to appease

My urge to give your feet force, in their bid

To climb. So must the slow be spurred. They waste

Their waking hour when it comes back.” We went   140

On through the evening, and the way we faced,

Ahead, our concentrated gaze we sent,

Against the bright late rays, when, plume by plume,

Black smoke approached, and I mean black as night.

No getting out of it: there wasn’t room,

And soon it took from us our whole eyesight

And all our pure air, so we might as well,

Even up here, have been back there in Hell.

CANTO 16

Neither in Hell’s gloom nor in cloudy night

Bereft of stars and planets, had I yet

Known in my life a veil that blocked my sight

So thick, of stuff so harsh, as that one set

To my eyes by the smoke that wrapped us there,

Choking the eyelids shut. Therefore my wise

And faithful escort moved in close, and where

His shoulder was, I felt, and in the guise

Of someone blind who stays behind his guide

To skirt what, knocked against, might hurt or kill,   10

So I edged through the foul and bitter tide.

He kept on saying—I can hear it still—

“Don’t get cut off from me.” On every side

Were voices, and they seemed to pray for peace

And mercy to God’s Lamb, that took away

Our sins. And always those hymns without cease

Had the same words, beginning “Agnus Dei,”

And just one measure, their accord complete.

I asked, “Are all these spirits that I hear?”

And he: “They are. The prayers that they repeat   20

Mean that they strive to bring the moment near

When they will lay the knot of anger loose.”

“Who are you that come here to cleave our smoke

And speak as if you tell time by the use

Of words that once were Roman?” one voice spoke.

My Master: “Answer, and make sure you ask

Is this the way up.” And I: “You that make

The cleansing of yourself your present task

So you may shine in fairness when you take

The road back to the one that made you, you   30

Will hear a marvel if you stay near me.”

“I will, as far as I’m permitted to,”

He said, “And if the smoke won’t let us see,

Hearing will keep us joined.” And then I said

“Wrapped in the flesh that death undoes, I find

My way up, and I came here through the dread

Reaches of Hell, and since God has a mind

To take me into grace, and I am led

Alive, like no one else after St. Paul,

To see His court, don’t hide from me, but tell   40

Me who you were, and if the entrance hall

To the next stage is on this road. Then well

May your words be our escort.” “I knew all

The world,” he said. “I, Marco. Lombard, I:

Lover of qualities for which they now

Can’t bend the bow to let the arrow fly,

Let alone hit them. Straight ahead is how

You go. I pray that when you reach the sky

You’ll pray for me.” And I to him: “I pledge

My faith to you to do what you now seek,   50

But still a doubt within keeps me on edge

To breaking point. What I have heard you speak

Doubles the doubt I brought here from Guido,

And so confirms the world must be indeed

Barren of virtue, as you’ve let me know:

With evil decked, and evil in the seed.

But now I pray you say why this is so.

Tell me the cause, that I may tell the world.

Some say the fault is in our stars, and some

It’s in ourselves.” And here a sigh unfurled,   60

Saying “Alas” for grief. “Brother, you come

Indeed from the blind realm, for you, that live,

Refer all causes to the sky alone,

As if it, only, had the power to give

Movement to things. Were it to wholly own

That property, however, all free will

Would leave you, and there’d be no justice in

Joy for good deeds or grief for doing ill.

The star-field helps your impulses begin.

I don’t say all of them, but if I did,   70

On good and bad and on free choice it shines:

Choice which, if it survives that first armed bid

To shape it, will be raised on the right lines

And conquer all. It’s to a greater force

And better nature you, since freedom’s yours,

Are subject. Therein lies the one true source

Of your mind, which the mere stars lack the laws

To rule. Thus, if the present world should veer,

The cause is in you, and it must be sought

In you. To prove this to you, I am here,   80

Your faithful scout. Just like a child in sport,

With tears and smiles, our little simple soul

Emerges from His hand. He looks at it

With fondness, though as yet it lacks the whole

Of knowledge, and so far is scarcely fit

To be considered as itself. It moves

Because its Maker moves it, when it turns

To what attracts it, and at first it proves

Each trifling good by taste, and what it learns,

Being beguiled, is to run after more,   90

If guide and curb don’t turn its love aside.

For law to be a brake on this, therefore,

There was a need, a law to override

The impulse of delight: need for a king

Fit to make out the tower’s tip at least

Of the true city. Law: well, there’s a thing.

The law exists, but by default has ceased

To be enforced. No emperor, and the Pope

Knows the law’s letter but ignores its heart.

Our shepherd, going on before, can cope   100

With worldly things, but the unearthly part

Escapes him. He has half the pastoral scope.

He chews the cud, but has not the split hoof,

And therefore is unclean: we may not eat.

Just watch the people, if you want the proof:

They see him snatching at the easy meat

They too are greedy for, and do the same,

Asking no more. Thus you can see it plain:

Ill guidance is the cause of the ill fame

The world has earned, this wicked world of pain—   110

Bad leadership, not nature gone to rot

In you. For Rome, which made the just world, could

Boast two bright suns once, as it now cannot.

Each clarified one path: not bad and good,

But world and God. And now what have we got?

One quells the other. Sword and shepherd’s crook

Are joined, and all for ill, since, joined, the one

Has no fear of the other. Take a look—

If you should doubt this tale of mischief done

By false ambition—at an ear of corn,   120

For plant is known by seed. There on the land

Between the Adige and Po, were born,

And grew for generations, a great band

Of all the brave and courteous, and then

The Emperor Frederick met his nemesis,

The papacy, and now only those men

Can cross it safely who would rather miss,

For shame, all converse with the virtuous,

Or even a mere meeting. Growing old

Down there are three men we might well discuss   130

As paragons the ancient times may hold

Up to the new as figures of reproof.

Currado and Gherardo were dead straight,

And Guido da Castel was not aloof

From all the horsemen who passed by his gate—

Such that the French would call him, in their style,

The guileless Lombard. So we may deduce

The Church of Rome, divided all this while

Into two powers, falls without excuse

Into the mire, itself and its great task   140

Both utterly befouled.” “You put the case

With skill, my Marco,” said I. “I need ask

No more why Levi’s sons and all that race

Who served the tabernacle were debarred

From worldly goods. But tell me who he is,

Gherardo, who yet breathes to give a hard

Lesson in virtue from an age once his

To this age of barbarity in which

We now must live.” He said: “Either your speech

Deceives me, or it tests me. Phrase and pitch   150

Are Tuscan, yet somehow I have to teach

You everything about Gherardo. Him

I know by no last name, because it’s been

Dragged in the dirt, its lustre dusted dim,

By his loose daughter Gaia. This I’ve seen,

A true sign of today. Now may the Lord

Be with you, for no further can I walk

With you. There is a risk I can’t afford,

Much as I have enjoyed our little talk.

You see there, where the smoke is turning white?   160

It will turn brighter yet, and you will see

An angel, for he is that source of light.

But I must leave you before he sees me.”

He turned back, cutting short our colloquy.

CANTO 17

Remember, reader, if you’ve ever been

Caught in the mountain mist so nothing could

(Except as moles see, through the skin) be seen,

How, when the day showed signs of coming good,

The dense white vapours started to unclasp

And through them the sun’s feeble disc appeared?

Remember that, and your mind soon may grasp

How I, at first, and as its setting neared,

Now saw the sun again. And so I came,

My step matched to my Guide’s in that pale glow,   10

Forth from the fog to see the beams whose flame

Was close to dying on the beach below.

Imagination! With your power to steal

Our thoughts, at times, away from actual things—

So that, although a thousand trumpets peal

Around us, still we pay no heed—who stings

You into life when our dulled senses feel

Nothing to offer you? The light that moves

Your workings takes its form in Heaven, by

Itself or by God’s will, which, if that proves   20

To be the maker, sends it down the sky

To you. Of Philomela’s sister, when

Pursued for her foul deed she changed her shape

Into a nightingale, the imprint then

Entered my thoughts. My mind tried to escape—

Ah, Procne, how your crime dismayed all men!—

Into itself, so nothing from outside

Could be received. But then came raining down,

Through my high fantasy, the crucified

Figure of Haman; scornful his fierce frown,   30

Dying in anger, and around him were

Ahasuerus in his greatness, and

Esther his queen—it was because of her

That Haman’s plot against Jews in that land

Was foiled—and there her cousin Mordecai,

Of such integrity in word and deed;

And as the image on my inner eye

Paled by itself, a bubble in sore need

Of the water that it formed in, there arose

The vision of a girl in bitter tears,   40

And she said “Queen, how was it that you chose,

From anger, to cut short your natural years?

You died for me, for your Lavinia,

To keep me. But you should have loved me less,

And now I am the one who mourns, for far

More than the ruin of my Turnus. Yes,

The wreck I weep for endlessly is yours.”

As sudden new light causes sleep to break,

Which, being broken, fitfully restores

Itself before it fades and we’re awake,   50

So my imagination fell away

As soon as a bright light shone in my face,

Brighter by far than in our usual day.

I turned to get my bearings in this place

When, through the dazzle, I heard some voice say:

“Here is the place to climb.” So I was drawn

Away from all thoughts else, and my desire

To see that speaker had so white a dawn

It needs no rest, for it will never tire

Until we meet at last. But as the sun   60

Weighs down our vision with excess of fire

And veils its outline with its power to stun,

Just so my power at this point came up short.

“A spirit hidden in its sacred light,”

My Leader said, as if spurred by my thought,

“Is guiding us unsought from height to height,

As we ourselves might give ourselves support,

No questions asked: for he who waits to ask

Is of a mind to face refusal. Now

Let’s time our steps in answer to the task   70

Of going where he points, and so somehow

Ascend before it darkens. After that

We can’t go on until the sky turns fair.”

Into the stairway which we now were at

We turned our steps together, and right there,

On the first step, I thought I felt a wing

Beside me fan my face, and clearly heard

“Beati pacifici.” The key thing

It said next I remember word for word:

“They have no sin of anger.” Lingering,   80

The last light rays were shining far aloft,

So high up on the hill that the sky’s sides

Were spattered with the points, still sparse and soft,

Of the first stars. Night comes while day abides.

“My strength,” I said within myself, “Why do

You drain away?” For in my legs I felt

The force suspended. Here the stairs came to

Their end, and I could sense my impulse melt

Like a ship approaching shore, as in the new

Circle I listened for a while to see   90

If anything was happening, then said

“Kind father, what offence is it, tell me,

That is purged here? Our feet may have been led

To stillness, but let not your speech be still.”

And he: “The love of good is here restored,

That fell short of its duty. With a will

The oar is plied anew that had grown bored

And trifled with the water. To fulfil

Your hope more quickly of an easy mind,

Turn it to me, and you will benefit   100

From this delay. My son, as you will find

Deep in your knowledge and informing it,

Neither Creator, no, nor any kind

Of creature was there ever without Love,

If of the mind, or natural. It may not,

The natural, err, and ranks above

The other in that aspect. Minds have got

Two ways to err in love: the wrong object,

Or else the vigour with which love’s pursued—

There might be excess, there might be defect.   110

Directed at the primal good, imbued

With no more than a rational respect

Toward the second thing, the world, it won’t

Cause sinful pleasure; but when evil turns

Its head, or when its inner counsels don’t

Govern the rate at which its longing burns

For serving its own good—perhaps too much,

Perhaps too little—then the creature spurns

Its own creator, and the two lose touch

Except as adversaries. From that fact   120

You’ll understand that love must be the source

In you of every virtue and vile act

Deserving punishment. Since love, of course,

Can never turn against the one who feels

The love, but has his welfare most at heart,

All beings are protected by strong seals

Against self-loathing. No one is apart

From the First One, none self-sustaining. No

Creature can be cut off by hating Him.

Only a neighbour’s evil is loved so,   130

And this love, in your human life and limb,

The common clay in which you come and go,

Springs up in three ways. There is he that hopes

To rise beside his neighbour’s sharp descent

And looks with favour when the downward slopes

Demote another’s greatness, as was meant

To be, he thinks: and he thinks that from Pride.

There’s he that fears his power might be lost

And all his honour and high state denied

Because another has them, at his cost,   140

Or so he feels, although they rank the same.

Sorely aggrieved, he longs to see reversed

The other’s rise to equal power and fame,

And it’s by Envy that he has been cursed.

The third man feels disgraced by some insult

And hungers for revenge, and plots and plans,

And makes another’s harm into a cult

Which hangs around the house like pots and pans,

And this is Anger. These are the three kinds

Of love gone wrong they weep for back in those   150

Three circles you’ve just come through. In their minds

They had the vice, and they do not suppose

To be excused, although the sin remained

Just a propensity, mere sinfulness.

But now there is still more to be explained:

Those who pursue the good, but strive with less

Than their full measure to attain it. All,

Although confused, find good to apprehend

In which the mind can rest. This they may call

An object of desire, a fruitful end   160

They try to reach, but should they try and fail

Sufficiently to see, or gain, the goal,

This terrace here, and all it must entail

Of penitence, awaits each slothful soul

With torments for its fault. And then, beyond

This terrace rise a further three, to hold

Those who were far from feeble but too fond

Of all the pinchbeck that they thought was gold,

The pleasures of the world, which give no joy,

Which don’t ring true, but click like counterfeit—   170

The earthbound goods fit only to destroy

Good’s essence, and to draw love by deceit.

Love lost like that is wept for up above

In those three circles, but the three distinct

Divisions of that all too faithful love

I won’t describe now. How they’re interlinked

Will be apparent to your intellect

When you, through toil, have learned what to expect.”

CANTO 18

When my exalted Teacher reached the end

Of his discourse, he looked me in the face

Intently, with a gaze that did not bend,

To see if I was satisfied. The place

Of my last thirst, in fact, was full again

With yet another, but I held my peace,

Saying within myself “It could be, when

I ask him all these questions without cease,

It troubles him.” And then I said aloud:

“Master, my vision, quickened by your light,   10

Sees all your words with clarity endowed.

I pray therefore, dear father, that you might

Explain love to me: love to which, you say,

Good actions are reduced, and equally

Their opposites.” And he: “Direct the way

To me, the eyesight, keen as it may be,

Of all your understanding. Plain as day

The error will strike you about the blind

Who would be guides. Created to be quick

In love, it’s quickly moved, the mind,   20

Towards all pleasures. By the merest flick

Of pleasure it is whipped to action. Your

Perception takes in from the world outside,

A sense impression, which it holds before

Your mind, and spreads about both long and wide

So that the mind turns to it. If, so turned,

The mind inclines that way, then we must call

That inclination love. It is not learned,

It’s instinct, to be reinforced by all

The pleasures you might have. For just as fire   30

Moves upward, as a form that’s born to climb

To where it most thrives, so, into desire,

The mind thus seized must enter at the time

Of being taken—for desire moves as

The spirit moves it—and may never rest

Until the thing it loves it truly has

In its possession, and so finds the crest

Of joy. Now you may see how truth’s concealed

For those who say that all love merits praise

Just for itself. Its matter stands revealed   40

As good, they think: but here their judgement plays

A trick, because the wax might well be good—

That is, the instinct—and the stamp be bad,

Which is the thing loved.” “My wits have understood

Your words. Some of the questions that I had

About love’s nature are now answered, yet

Perplexity increases, for if love

Is offered us as something we might get

From outside, and the soul’s not thinking of

Which foot should fall, but sets foot as it must,   50

There is no merit in which way it goes,

Crooked or straight.” Thus I to him. He: “Just

As far as reason sees can I disclose

The truth to you. Beyond, there you must wait

For Beatrice, who deals in faith. In men,

As in all things, there lies within, innate,

An essence, the substantial form. Again

This form—for man, it bears the name of soul—

Is both united with and yet distinct

From matter, which it keeps within, a whole   60

Specific virtue which is tightly linked

To its own action and is not perceived

Or demonstrated save by its effect,

As is the first life in a plant green-leaved.

It follows that the human intellect

Can’t have the first idea of how we know

About our first ideas and how they came

To us, or how desire finds objects so

Alluring. They’re inside you, just the same

As the honey-making urge is in the bees:   70

Nor does the primal, central will admit

Earning of praise or moral penalties.

So that your wishes may conform to it—

The balance, that is, to your natural urge—

There is, innate in you, to hold the fort,

A faculty of counsel, thus to merge

The two against a yielding. This we ought

To call the principle in which is found

The merit of your reason, by how well

It gathers in our loves from sky to ground   80

And winnows out the guilt from grain that fell

Too smoothly to the sickle. Those who went

In reason to the roots, the ancient Greeks,

Unearthed the freedom, realised what it meant,

And gave us the great texts in which it speaks:

They gave us Ethics, clear proofs that though each

And every love you burn with must arise

Out of necessity, the power to reach

And guide it is in you. This is the prize

Whose endless value Beatrice will teach   90

You of, the noble faculty, free will:

Have it in mind, because the chances are

She’ll speak of it to you, there on the hill.”

The moon was late, and we had come this far

Without it. It was almost midnight. There

It was, to make the stars look scarcer. Like

A fiery bucket it moved through the air,

Its course on those tracks that the sun will strike

When, seen from Rome, it plunges down between

Sardinia and Corsica. That shade   100

By whose great books Pietola has been

Honoured above all Mantua, had laid

His head down. I had heard him well. Yes, I,

Replete with his informed and clear discourse,

Rambled in drowsiness, but by and by

Half sleep was torn awake with sudden force.

Some people had come round behind our backs,

And as Ismenus and Asopus saw

The troops of tumult and the mock attacks

Along the bank at night when Thebes would roar   110

And prance for Bacchus, so I saw them come

Around that circle, but with something more

To celebrate, for I could tell the drum

That drove them was no pagan pulse of blood

But goodwill and just love. And soon they were

Upon us, all these runners, like a flood,

And two in front cried out in tears: “Praise her!

Praise Mary hastening to the hill!” And this:

“Caesar made speed to Spain!” And in the rear

The rest cried: “Go! Go! It would come amiss   120

To lose time for too little love! We cheer

For zeal in grand deeds that bring back to life

The green of God’s grace!” Then my Leader said

“You people in whom fervour runs so rife

To wake, maybe, what you have left half dead,

Through lack of will, delay and negligence,

This man who stands here—it’s the truth I speak—

Before the morning sunshine should commence

Again, would go up. Give us what we seek.

Show us the gap.” At which one of that band   130

Said “Follow us and you will find the break.

We need to move, you have to understand:

We may not rest. Excuse us if you take

Our penance for rebuff. I, at one time,

Was abbot of San Zeno, in the days

When Barbarossa ruled Verona. I’m

Aware Milan still loathes him, but he stays

Revered where I lived, and there is one there now,

Alberto, who has one foot in the grave

And must soon shed tears on account of how   140

His monastery is run. No throne will save

That lord of grief from using power there

In those cloisters, and because he set his son—

Warped in the body, worse in mind—to wear

The abbot’s cowl, a basely born wanton

In place of the true shepherd.” I don’t know

If he said more or else fell silent, as

Already he had run to pass us so,

But thus I heard and in my mind it has

Remained. And he that was my help said “Turn   150

Around here. See the two that bare in wrath

Their teeth while they tell lessons all should learn

About historic instances of sloth.”

They came behind the rest, and as they came

They said “The sea was opened, but they failed

To get back to the Jordan all the same.”

They must have meant the Hebrews. And “They sailed

As far as Sicily but had no thirst

For more horizons, and Aeneas left

Without them. Thus they lived on, and were cursed   160

With lack of glory, of all fame bereft.”

Then, when these shades were gone so far from us

We couldn’t see them, a new thought was born

Within me that I needed to discuss,

And then another, and my mind was torn

In all directions like a tumbling stream:

My eyes closed, and my thoughts turned to a dream.

CANTO 19

In that hour when the whole heat of the day

Is overcome by Earth’s cold and the cold

Of Saturn, and no longer keeps at bay

The cold moon, while what geomancers hold

To be their “Greater Future”—that small spray

Of six stars—rises in the east before

The dawn, using a path that won’t remain

Long dark for it, and light will close the door,

There came to me a woman, racked with pain,

Into my dream, and she was crossed of eye   10

And crooked on her feet, with broken hands,

And sallow, and she stammered fit to die.

I stared at her, and as the sun commands

Warmth into limbs benumbed by the chill night,

My look untied her tongue, and in a while

She straightened up. Wan features were made bright

With colour, as love finds the proper style.

Her speech set free, she then began to sing,

And hard it would have been to turn my mind

Away from that song, such a charming thing   20

It was. “I am the siren, of my kind

The sweetest, and the sailors I can fetch

In from the sea, and them to me I bind

As prisoners of delight. For quite a stretch

Ulysses, eager voyager, was held

Fast by my song. Whoever dwells with me,

So thoroughly are all his longings quelled

He rarely leaves.” The pretty melody

Was over, but her lips were not yet closed

When there beside me a new face appeared,   30

A woman holy, vibrant yet composed.

Briefly she spoke, in sharp tones to be feared

For anger. “Virgil, Virgil, who is this?”

His gaze paid homage to that honest one.

With altogether different emphasis

He seized the other, and the thing was done:

Tearing her clothes in front, he laid her bare,

Showing her belly, and the stink of her

Awoke me, and I heard my Guide declare:

“Three times I called you, and yet still you were   40

Enchanted. Rise now and get out of there.

We have to find the gap where you go in.”

I rose, and high day had already lit

The circles, from low down, where they begin,

All the way up the holy mountain. It

Was full of light. Propelled by the new sun,

We went on. As I followed him, my brow—

I knew by how it felt—I bore like one

Whose thoughts weigh down on him, to make him bow

Like the half-arch of a bridge, and then I heard   50

“Come, here’s the passage,” in a voice more sweet

And gracious to the ear than any word

In this our mortal world we ever meet.

The speaker had the spread wings of a swan.

He showed us upwards in between the walls

Of flint-stone, and we felt, as we moved on,

The fanning of his feathers, with soft calls

Of qui lugent, which means all those who mourn

Are to be blessed, for consolation will

Possess their souls. “By what doubt are you torn?”   60

My Guide asked when our new place on the hill

Was higher than the angel’s. “Why do you

Stare at the ground?” And I to him: “I go

Compelled by much misgiving from a new

Vision, which to itself has bent me so

I can’t stop thinking of it.” “But it’s true,”

He said, “that ancient witch is mourned nowhere

Except in circles yet to come. You saw

How men are free of her. Enough said. Spare

Your feet your waverings, and fix before   70

Your eyes the real enchantment, the spun flare

The Eternal King, to mark the joy in store,

Has lit with the great wheels, their starry trace.”

Just like the falcon, which, when it is hailed,

Looks first down to its feet, then turns to face

The call, and stretches, by desire assailed

For food, so I was, in that cloven place,

And went up through the rock to where one takes

The circuit. I came out in the fifth round.

People were there who wept as the heart breaks:   80

They helplessly lay face down on the ground.

“My soul cleaves to the dust,” they said with sighs

So deep the words were hard to pick apart.

“Elect of God,” my Poet asked, “whose prize

Is here to have the anguish in your heart

Made less acute by justice and by hope,

Which is the best way up?” “If you’re exempt

From lying here on this round of the slope,”

The answer came, “the route for your attempt”—

These words came from a little way ahead—   90

“Is quickest if your right hand stays outside.”

After I found that face by what it said,

I turned with a mute question to my Guide,

And gladly he assented with a sign.

Free now to act, I drew above that soul

Whose words had made me note him. These were mine.

“Spirit whose weeping ripens to a whole

Without which nobody returns to God,

For my sake stay awhile your chief concern.

Who were you all? Why do you, in this odd   100

Manner, show us your backs? This I would learn,

And whether you, when I go back alive

Into the world, would want from me a boon.”

And he to me: “Just how it should arrive

That Heaven turns our backs to it, you soon

Will know. Know now that Peter was

First in my chair. I was Pope Adrian,

Count of Lavagna, titled so because

That fair stream serves our land. I was the man

Who proved in five weeks what the mantle weighs   110

On him who keeps it from the mud. No load

Comes close to it. Alas, there were delays

Before my feet were set on the right road,

But when I was made Shepherd there in Rome

I saw how life was just a pack of lies,

I saw the heart could never be at home,

I saw it was impossible to rise

In that life, so that this life, with no end,

Kindled my love. I, wretched till that hour,

Separate from God, believed that my best friend   120

Was avarice. You see me in the power

Of its fit penitence. What avarice

Can do is here declared, so as to purge

Converted souls. No pain is worse than this

In all the mountain. Just as that foul urge

Kept our eyes low, misled by worldly things,

So justice here has sunk them to the earth.

Just as that rage reduced to flickerings

Our love of good, and labour died at birth,

So justice here takes care to hold us fast,   130

Bound hand and foot, and keeps us for as long

As it should please the Lord. From first to last

We lie still and outstretched. We were that wrong.”

I’d knelt, and was about to speak, but when

He heard one word, he guessed my reverence.

“What cause,” he said, “has set you kneeling, then?”

And I: “Your dignity commands my sense

Of fitness.” He to me: “Brother, set straight

Your legs, and rise. I am, make no mistake,

A fellow servant of one Potentate,   140

Along with you and others. For the sake

Of those words in the Gospel which make clear

All earthly marriages are here annulled,

Be sure of what I mean. I have not, here,

My earthly rank, so try not to be gulled.

Now go your way. I would not have you pause

Longer than this. Your presence interferes

With how I weep according to the laws

Of that full ripening you say my tears

Will bring me to. Alagia, my niece,   150

Lives yonder. By her nature she has all

The virtues. May our house leave them in peace,

And not corrupt her with its tempting call,

For she is all my treasure left unspent

As I lie here in this, my long lament.”

CANTO 20

Against a better will, mere will fights ill:

Therefore, to please him—this did not please me—

I drew the sponge that I had wished to fill

Out of the water, curiosity

Unsatisfied. I moved on round the hill—

My Leader, too, moved—keeping to that part

Left free from bodies close beside the rock,

As battlements provide, by builder’s art,

A walkway for the guards. Too great a stock,

The other edge contained, of people who   10

Poured from their eyes the evil, drop by drop,

That fills the world. Old wolf, a curse on you!

You with your hunger that will never stop

For more prey than all other beasts! When, when,

O heavens—by whose wheeling, it’s believed,

Conditions shift and change for living men—

When will he come by whom we are reprieved,

And put the wolf to flight? And on we went

With short, slow steps, and on those weeping shades,

Their lamentations, I remained intent,   20

Until by chance I heard, through his cascades

Of tears, one up ahead of us call “Ah,

Sweet Mary!” like a woman giving birth.

“That meagre hostelry below the star

Where you lay down your burden of great worth

Tells us how poor you were!” And then I heard:

“Fabricius, Consul who did not betray

Rome for a bribe, but chose to keep your word,

Virtue in poverty must far outweigh

Riches in wickedness!” These last words stirred   30

Such pleasure in me that I pressed ahead,

To know that soul from which they seemed to come,

And he went on to tell of how it’s said

St. Nicholas bestowed a generous sum

As dowry on three girls who faced disgrace

From destitution. “Soul who speaks so well

Of such good, who were you? Why, in this place,

Do you alone renew the tales you tell

Of well-earned praise? Be sure your words will be

Repaid if I get back to life, and walk   40

The last part of the road that’s left to me.”

And he: “Not for that boon of which you talk,

Comfort from yonder, but because I see

Such grace in you before death, I will speak.

Of that most evil tree I was the root,

The tree that overshadows with its bleak

Wide canopy all Christendom. Good fruit

Is rarely gathered there. But if Douai,

Lille, Ghent and Bruges had sufficient force

They’d take revenge for that fact, which is why,   50

From Him who judges all things in due course,

I beg an intervention. I was called

Hugh Capet, yonder. All the Kings of France

Called Philip or else Louis now installed

On that throne have my loins for provenance.

I was a Paris butcher’s son. The old

Kings faded, all but one of them, who was,

At my insistence, chosen to uphold

A cloistered life, and that became his cause:

A grey-clad monk. At which I could enfold   60

The reins, in my safe hands, of government

And kingdom, much new power and many friends:

Such an abundance that my son’s head rose

Into the vacant crown. From there extends

The line of their bones, and we all know those

Are consecrated. Just as long as that

Great dowry of Provence had not deprived

My line of shame, it more or less stood pat:

Of small account, at least it still contrived

To do no harm. But then with force and fraud   70

Began its rapine. Three French petty states

England gave up, persuaded by the sword.

Charles of Anjou, so history relates,

Was gentle when he killed young Conradin,

And sent Thomas Aquinas to his rest

With thoughtful tact. I see the times begin

When Charles of Valois, at the Pope’s behest,

Comes out of France to Florence. He wants fame

For self and people. He arrives unarmed

Save for the Judas lance, the shaft of blame,   80

And drives it home so that the city’s harmed,

Its paunch bursts, and he picks up from the game

Not land, but sin and shame. And every White

Is driven out when he lets in the Blacks:

The more he calls that victory his by right,

The more the guilt he has, the grace he lacks.

The second Charles of Anjou, from his ship

Was taken prisoner. Now I see him trade

His daughter, as the pirates crack a whip

For other women slaves, who must parade,   90

And when the bidding flags they force the price.

O Avarice, what can you do to us

To match what you have done? How can you twice

Draw to yourself my grasping bloodline thus,

So we devour each other? But there’s worse,

Worse than before, or after. Philip brings

The fleur-de-lis to settle like a curse

On where Charles Valois gets away from things,

And makes him captive—thus, a second time,

Mocking the Lord. Once more the vinegar!   100

Again the gall! And dying for no crime

Between two living thieves! And this, by far,

Is not enough for our new Pilate, no.

Outside the law he sails in all his greed

To rob the Templars. Lord, when can I show

The joy of seeing you bring what we need,

Your vengeance, which, while it stays hidden so,

Makes your wrath sweet? We know that we await

A reckoning for sinners. When I cried

The bride’s name of the Holy Ghost so great,   110

And brought you, for more comment, to my side,

Such was, for us, as long as day lasts here,

The object of our prayer exemplified,

But we invoke the worst when night draws near.

In darkness we call up Pygmalion:

Gold-fever made a traitor and a thief

And worse. By his untamed hand, death was done

To his own sister Dido’s husband. Grief

For her, but gain for him. Did anyone

Know misery like the greedy-guts in chief,   120

King Midas, who was granted his fond prayer

To have the world turn golden at his touch,

And now forever all men fight for air

Laughing at him? And all here, just as much,

Remember foolish Achan, how he stole

The spoils at Jericho and earned a hail

Of stones from Joshua, and now the whole

Anguish he feels again. And we assail

Sapphira and her husband with our scorn,

They who took money that the people willed   130

To the apostles. And the horse-kick borne

By Heliodorus after he had filled

His pockets from the temple, we salute.

The name of Polymestor, King of Thrace—

Who murdered Polydorus and, to boot,

Filched all his wealth—we grant a lasting place

In infamy. And the last one on the list?

‘Crassus, you drank gold. Did you like the taste?’

For that Triumvir had a grasping fist

And died of it, and in his mouth the waste   140

Of his great love was poured, but he had missed

The moment when he might have lived the proof

That avarice is loss. Some of us speak

Forth boldly here, and others, more aloof,

Speak low. The ardour, strong or weak,

Compels our voice with force the more or less,

And thus, although I seemed alone just now,

We all talk day by day of what we bless,

The good. But I was loudest. That was how

You picked me out.” We had already left   150

Hugh Capet, and were out to cover ground

As fast as we could go, when the whole heft

Of that great mountain shook and moved around

Like something getting set to fall. A chill

Seized me as if I’d been sent to my death.

Did Delos, the floating island—by Jove’s will

Set fast so that Latona might give breath

To Heaven’s twin eyes—ever shake this hard

Before Apollo and Diana stood

On earth made firm? My Master was my guard:   160

He drew close, to convince me this was good,

As on all sides arose a mighty shout:

“Fear not, I am your guide!” was one thing heard,

Also a cry of Gloria rang out,

And in excelsis Deo chased that word

Into the ear, although those close about

I heard the best, and was not always sure,

Such was the noise. Unmoving, in suspense,

We stood surrounded by that sweet uproar,

As once the shepherds were deprived of sense   170

By what the cry they heard said was in store

For them, and all mankind: something immense.

But then it ended, and the trembling ceased,

And we could take once more our sacred path,

The shades that lay there, having thus released

Their outburst, melted in the aftermath,

Their usual weeping. Never did ignorance

Goad me to know—if rightly I recall—

As it did then, in that twin circumstance

Of song and earthquake. But since that was all   180

There was to see and hear, and time was short,

I dared not ask, and could not, on my own,

Work out the implications. Lost in thought,

Too shy to ask a question, left alone

Behind my Guide, I went on past that long

Line of the ones who weep at their own song.

CANTO 21

The natural thirst that’s never quenched if not

By the same sweet water that Samaria’s

Most humble woman begged might be her lot

Tormented me, and haste urged me, and as

I hurried on that crowded way behind

My Leader, a compassion for the just

Vengeance that made them weep welled in my mind,

And lo, as Luke recalls in words we trust

As from a witness, when Christ reappeared

Out of the tomb’s mouth and was seen by two   10

There in his way, just so, to us, there neared

A shade behind our backs while all we knew

Was that which lay before us, and we saw

Nothing of him until he spoke. “God yield

You peace, my brothers.” Virgil’s gesture bore

Acknowledgement for what had been appealed,

But then he spoke. “Alas, God never will

For me. But may the faithful court on high

That keeps me exiled hopelessly until

The end of time, bring you in peace where I   20

Can never go, the assembly of the blessed.”

“And how,” the shade asked, as we speedily

Went on, “if you’re unworthy of this test,

Have you been brought so far on stairs that He

Built for one purpose?” And my Teacher said

“Look on the marks borne by this man, and see

An angel traced them so he might be sped

To where the righteous reign. But since the fate

Lachesis, spinning that thread day and night

Which is our life, has not yet the full rate   30

Of flax from Clotho, who selects the right

Amount for all alive, and loads and packs

The distaff, so his soul—your sister, and

Mine too—could not alone make tracks

This high, because by nature it is banned

From seeing in our way, through intellect:

And thus was I drawn from Hell’s yawning jaws

To guide him, and will guide him, I expect,

As far as reason reaches with its laws.

But can you tell us why the mountain shook   40

So violently just then, and why we seemed

To hear one giant shout, which surely took

All of the souls sent here to be redeemed

Down to its wave-washed base?” Thus questioning,

He put the thread’s end through the needle’s eye

Of my desire so neatly that the thing

I wished to know made me less thirsty by

The measure that my hope was raised. Whereat

The other said “The mountain’s holy laws

Do not brook the disorderly, or that   50

Which injures custom. This place, for that cause,

Is free from change. Only when Heaven calls

Itself unto itself, are changes made,

But only then, and therefore no rain falls

Or hail or snow or dew, and there is laid

No carpet of hoar frost, not anywhere

Beyond the three-step staircase you have seen.

There are no clouds here, whether dense or rare,

Nor lightning flash, nor has there ever been

Iris the rainbow, who, down there below,   60

Will bridge the sky to echo the sunshine.

Nor does the wind’s friend, the dry vapour, go

Higher than that third step which draws the line

Where Peter’s vicar sets his feet. Although

The mountain, lower down, might sometimes shake

A little or a lot, it will not be,

Up here where we are, subject to a quake

From wind the earth hides. If, to me,

The reason is a mystery, still I’m sure

It trembles when one soul feels purified   70

So it may finally arise and soar

On its ascending path, the upward glide,

And then we hear the shout you heard before.

Pureness of soul is by the will alone

Proved true, and then the soul, set free at last

To change its place, by no will of its own

Is taken by surprise. The will holds fast

The soul, and for the soul it will prevail.

Until that time, the soul might will indeed,

But set beside desire its will is frail:   80

Desire for sin, and then the equal need

For penitence, that mirror-image urge

Inspired by Holy Justice. I have lain

Five hundred years and more in pain to purge

My sin, and only now feel my will gain

Its freedom for the flight to re-emerge

On a better threshold. That was why you felt

The earth quake, and you heard the spirits shout

Their praises to the Lord. May they be dealt

The same great benefit, all the devout   90

Throughout the mountain, and soon make the climb.”

He spoke thus. Since the draught is more enjoyed

The more the thirst, I lack the words and rhyme

To say how much I gained from that filled void.

Then my wise Leader said “Now is the time

When I see how you’re tangled in the net

And how you are let loose. I see why, here,

It trembles, and why you rejoice. Now set

My mind at rest and let the truth appear,

And tell me who you were. Then you can let   100

Me gather from your words why you have spent

So many centuries here, lying down.”

“When goodly Titus,” that soul said, “was lent

Help from the holder of the Highest Crown

To raze Jerusalem, a gesture meant

As vengeance for the blood the gashes spilled

To pay off Judas, then I bore the name

That lasts best, and is most with honour filled,

The name of poet. Yes, I had that fame

But not the faith. Still, it was sweet, my song:   110

I, from Toulouse, was drawn to Rome. My brows

Were decked with myrtle. Still, after so long,

Men yonder speak my name, which yet endows

My themes with dignity. It’s Statius.

I sang of Thebes at first, Achilles next.

That second subject I could not discuss

Fully, for lack of time. In each context

The spark that lit my fire came from the blaze

That lit a thousand fires—I mean, of course,

The Aeneid. In my poetry, it plays    120

The roles of nurse and mother, spring and source:

Without it I’d have weighed a drachma. Less.

To have lived when Virgil lived! Here in this place

I would have spent a year more in duress

Before my banishment gave way to grace,

Just for the chance of treading the same ground.”

At these words Virgil fixed me with a look

That said, in silence, “Silence.” But he found

The will cannot do all things by the book,

For tears and laughter are close followers   130

Of passions, since they tend to spring from them,

And with a truthful passion it occurs

Most often that we’re likely to condemn

Their insolence. But still, I only smiled

Like someone hinting. The shade held his peace

And searched into my eyes as if beguiled

By something puzzling that might find release

Just where expression most resides. “Your glance

Showed mirth just then. That it may end in good,

Your labour, please explain that merry dance.”   140

Now I am held two ways. There’s one that would

Have me keep silent, and the other seeks

The opposite. My sigh is understood

By my Guide. “Fear not. Now be one who speaks,

And tell him what he so much craves to learn.”

And I: “You wonder, old soul, at my smile,

But I would have a greater wonder burn

Its way into your mind. For all this while,

Plainly before you as he guides my eyes

On high, it has been Virgil standing here—   150

Virgil from whom you took the gift as prize

To sing of men and make the gods appear,

And if another cause you did surmise

For my smile, know it has to be untrue:

Put it aside. The reason was your voice,

The praise it spoke of him. I smiled for you,

Because my secret pleasure left no choice.”

He bent down to embrace my Teacher’s feet,

But Virgil said “Brother, it’s just no use.

You are a shade and it’s a shade you meet.”   160

And Statius, rising, said “My one excuse

Is my great love for you, its burning heat.

I clean forgot, because I felt so much,

That shades are here to see, but not to touch.”

CANTO 22

Our guiding angel who had led us here

To the sixth circle, we had left behind.

One of my scars he’d made to disappear

From my face, and, as matter for the mind,

He had declared to us that those who thirst

Sufficiently for righteousness are blessed,

His message terminating with the first

Word of the verse, pronounced without the rest:

Just sitiunt, “they thirst.” And I went on

Lighter than in the other stairwells. I   10

Followed the swift souls up where they had gone

Without much work. I hardly had to try.

And Virgil said “Love, lit by one virtue,

Always ignites another, though its flame

Appear only without. And thus it’s true

That from the moment Juvenal in fame

Came down to Limbo and made known to me

Your fondness, Statius, my own goodwill

Towards you had a reciprocity

As great as ever possibly could fill   20

The heart of one for one unknown. So now

These stairs, to me, will seem short. But pray tell—

And as a friend forgive my nerve for how

I wax familiar—just how it befell

Your breast was occupied with avarice

As well as all the wisdom your zeal brought?”

In the beginning Statius smiled at this,

And then replied: “In truth, one would have thought—

Though your each word makes my heart more content

As token of your love—things sometimes seem   30

To give false matter for bewilderment

Because their cause is hidden. Thus I deem

Your question to me makes plain your belief

That I was grasping in the other life,

Doubtless because that sad flaw was the chief

Mark of my circle here. Yes, it was rife.

Know, then, my vice was just the opposite.

I was a prodigal, and this excess

Thousands of moons have punished. Done with it,

I can say now that I first found redress   40

For my bad habits when I read those lines

Where you, deploring human nature, cried

‘Thrice-cursed gold-hunger, to what dark designs

Do you not drive men to be satisfied?’

Had I not read that, I’d be rolling weights

And jousting dismally. I learned our hands

Can spread like wings, and spending dissipates,

And I repented, as of the demands

Of other sins. Many will rise again

With cropped hair, who have lost through ignorance   50

Their due repentance. They shall live, as men,

Their last hour playing games with their last chance.

Know, too, that each sin’s counter-sin is here,

Keeping the vigil with its opposite,

Consumed by its own juice. Though I appear

To be among the avaricious, it

Is not for that I weep like them. I fear

It’s for the contrary that I grieve so.”

“Now when you sing,” the poet said who wrote

The Bucolics, “about Jocasta’s woe   60

Caused by two warring sons, there’s not a note

Lent to you there by history’s muse, Clio,

That indicates the one faith was yet yours

Without which mere good deeds are not enough.

If that be so, what brought you to the shores

Of light—what sacred sun or earthly stuff

That makes a candle—so that you could raise

Your sails and steer behind the fisherman?”

And the other: “It was you that turned my gaze

Towards Parnassus so that I began   70

To drink in its cool caves. Yes, it was you,

First after God, that set my mind alight.

You were the guide whose lamp shows the way through

To those behind him as he goes by night:

Not for himself, but to make others wise,

He shines. ‘The age,’ you said, ‘turns new again.

Justice returns, the first days take fresh guise,

And out of Heaven a new race of men

Descends.’ A poet and a Christian, I,

Because of you. But to be clear just how,   80

I’ll set my hand to stir a deeper dye

And colour in my outline for you now.

The waiting world was pregnant everywhere

With the true faith, sown by the messengers

From the eternal realm. Your words were there—

The ones I spoke—and so in tune with theirs

I formed the habit of frequenting these

New preachers. In my eyes they came to seem

So holy that Domitian’s cruelties

Against them saw me trying to redeem   90

Their tears with mine. While I was there beyond,

I helped them. Their straight ways made me deplore

All other sects. So moved, I pledged my bond.

I’d been baptized, in secret, well before

I brought the Greeks to threaten, in my lines,

The Theban rivers. But, for fear, I hid,

A closet Christian making pagan signs,

And this lukewarmness about what I did

Earned me four hundred long years without cease

Of touring the fourth circle. Tell me, then—   100

You that first raised the curtain to release

My vision of the good—of those four men,

I named, Caecilius and Varius,

Terence and Plautus. Are they damned to Hell?

If so, in which part? This we must discuss

While we ascend this hill.” “Those four, as well

As Persius and I,” my Leader said,

“Are with the Greek most favoured by the milk

Of the Muses, in the first ring of the dead

Blind prison, where the elders of our ilk,   110

The ones that raised us, proudly we invoke:

Them and their singing mountain. In that place

With us—and I can’t name them at a stroke,

They are too many—you can see the face

Of Antiphon, and know Euripides,

Simonides and Agathon, each Greek

Whose brow wore laurels once. To please

You more, I’ll mention those of whom you speak:

Ismene and Antigone. Thetis . . .”

The list was long, but finally the two   120

Poets were silent. Well content with this

Exchange, from having talked as poets do,

They took the chance to look around them, freed

From climbing and the walls. The hours that drew

The sun, one handmaid always in the lead

Each hour, were four down, and the fifth was in

The harness, burning horn upright. “I think,”

My Leader said, “the best way to begin

Is with our right side outward to the brink,

And then bear left as usual round the wall.”   130

Just so our habit served there as a rule,

And off we went with scarce a doubt at all,

Because that soul from the elected school

Agreed with us. Those two walked on ahead,

Talking of poetry and how it’s made.

I walked behind and drank in what they said,

But soon their pleasant talk about our trade

Was interrupted by a tree that stood

Square in the way, and it was full of fruit,

And all the fruit smelled sweet as it looked good.   140

And as a fir, scanned upward from the root,

Tapers from branch to branch toward the tip,

So this tree tapered downward, so that none,

I think, should climb it. Some high lip

Of the cliff that walled our pathway spilled and spun

A fall of clearest water, which dispersed

Among the leaves above. The two approached

The tree, and from among its boughs there burst

A warning voice, as if they had encroached:

“You may not eat this food!” Then it went on:   150

“Mary dwelt more upon the marriage feast—

Its honour and completeness—than upon

Her own mouth, which up here has never ceased

To intercede for you. In times long gone,

A thirsty Roman woman was content

With water. Nor did Daniel eat his fill,

But spurned the king’s feast always, and this meant

He gained in wisdom by his frugal will.

As beautiful as gold was the First Age:

Hunger made acorns tasty, thirst made sweet   160

Nectar of every brook, so you can gauge

How satisfied the Baptist was to eat

The locust and sip honey. Every page

About this in the Gospel shows, therefore,

His greatness and his glory. Less is more.”

CANTO 23

While through the tree’s green leaves I strained my eyes

As one who watches hawks and sees them waste

His life, my more-than-father was more wise:

“Come, son, for only so much time is placed

At our disposal. We must use it well.”

I turned my face—and turned, at the same speed,

My steps—after the sages and the spell

Of what they said and, having that to heed,

The going cost me nothing. Then “O Lord,

Open my lips” we heard in Latin, wept   10

And sung in tones that brought, with one accord,

Delight and grief. And I said as we stepped

“Sweet father, what is this I hear?” And he:

“Perhaps shades, who, while going, loose the knot

Of debt.” As when, absorbed in reverie,

A group on foot will not ease by a jot

Their speed when overtaking strangers (see

Them turn their heads and look, but keep their pace),

Just so a crowd of souls came from behind

Quicker than us, yet silent, with the face   20

Of piety, although they seemed to find,

In us, the cause of wonder. Each was dark

And hollow in the eyes, and pale of cheek:

So wasted that the withered skin took stark

Shape from the bone. What once had bloomed was bleak.

I don’t believe even Erysichthon,

Punished by Ceres with a raging lust

To eat and eat till all the food was gone,

Looked quite so haggard when he realised just

One source of meat was left to fall upon.   30

He waited, starving, till he was the crust

That he could not resist. “Now see,” I said

Within myself, “There is Jerusalem

Revenged, which went for months on end unfed,

And one called Mary set a mark for them

By eating her own child.” Their eye-pits were

Like settings on a ring without the gem,

And he who thinks those sockets can confer

The letter M on faces would have found

OMO, to mean a man, stamped loud and clear   40

On each of theirs, the deep signs of a sound.

And who could know, who had not been up here,

How just a hint of water and mere scent

Of fruit, by the sheer craving they instilled,

Could bring about such grave disfigurement?

Keen curiosity was unfulfilled

Regarding what had starved them. Why were they

So lean? And I did not yet know the cause

Of their sad scurf. But one shade stared my way

From deep inside his head without a pause,   50

And then cried: “I’m in luck! What can I say?”

By looks alone I never would have known

Who this one was, but in his voice was plain

What in his face was shrivelled to the bone.

That spark revived the knowledge in my brain

Of his changed features, and I recognised

Forese, fellow sonneteer and friend.

He said “Try not to be too long surprised

By this tight scab that works to make an end

Of my skin’s colour, or by how my flesh   60

Is lacking, but just tell me about you.

And if the news is true, it will be fresh.

And these who go with you, who are these two?

Speak now.” And I: “Your face, for which I wept

When it was dead, now gives me no less grief,

Seeing how very little has been kept

Of what I knew, that there seems no relief

From the distortion. Tell me, in God’s name,

What is it wastes you? Do not make me speak

While I so marvel, for the tongue falls lame   70

Whose mind is elsewhere.” And he: “From the peak

We call God’s will eternal, virtue falls

As water to the tree we left back there

Whose fragrance is so sweet it cruelly galls

The famished body that you see I wear.

All those who gave way to their appetite

Beyond all reason, and so now must weep

As they go singing, here hope that they might,

Through thirst and hunger, once more get and keep

Their holiness. The sweet scent of the fruit   80

And of the spray spread over the green leaves

Can only make the craving more acute

To eat and drink. And anyone who grieves

Will do so often as he goes around

This level, with its other trees of pain—

Or let’s say solace, for it will be found

How that desire will lead us to the main

Tree of them all, the one that made Christ cry

The name of God, when from his every vein

The blood that freed us poured. He cried ‘Eli!’ ”   90

And I to him: “Forese, not five years

Have passed since you exchanged your life on Earth

For something better, and you’re here, in tears.

If your sin’s power died before the birth

Of penitence—the good grief that weds men

Again to God—I thought to find you in

The first part of this hill, there where, again,

Time is made good by time, and they can win,

Those waiting, recompense for tardiness.”

Then he to me: “It is my Nella brings   100

Me here so soon to drink—and, drinking, bless—

Sweet wormwood of the torments. She does things—

She prays, she sighs, she weeps floods—that have set

Me free from those first circles, from the slope

Where all must wait. As deep as love can get

Was my love for my widow, now my hope,

And she is loved by God now all the more

For being, in her good deeds, so alone—

For, in Sardinia, there’s a running sore,

Barbagia, whose women are less prone   110

To rank immodesty than in the pit

I left her in, our Florence, yours and mine.

Brother, what words of mine would you think fit?

A time that soon must come I can divine,

When from the pulpit it shall be declared

That brazen women of our native town

Must not go walking with their nipples bared.

Did ever law need to be handed down

That barbarous women, even Saracens,

Should cover themselves up? Some code of fear   120

On which a simple sense of shame depends?

But had our shameless creatures an idea

Of how swift Heaven has prepared their fate,

Their mouths already would be open wide,

All set to howl, for if I estimate

The prospects rightly, they will meet a tide

Of sorrow before he who now is lulled

To sleep with song can show a hairy jowl.

But, brother, you by whom the sun is dulled,

At you we gaze. Your news, please, fair or foul.   130

Not only I, but all of us, ask this.”

And I to him: “Recall what you once were

With me, and I with you. I’d be remiss

To overlook the way we used to stir

A mess of bad taste. It was my Guide turned

Me from that life. The other day, it was,

When that one’s sister (where the high sun burned

I pointed) here shone full. It is because

Of him that I came through the deep dark night

Of all the truly dead with my real form   140

That follows him. He drew me to the light,

And his attentions, generous and warm,

Have brought me up this hill that sets you right,

You that the world made crooked. On this climb

Around the mountain, he will be with me,

He promises, always until the time

That I see Beatrice. There I’m bound to be

Without him. It is Virgil who thus speaks

To me (I pointed), and this other one

Is he for whom the slopes and troughs and peaks   150

Of this your kingdom shook as they’ve just done—

Because the mountain knew, deep in its heart,

Another soul was ready to depart.”

CANTO 24

The going did not slow the talk, the talk

Slowed not the going. Saying what we said,

We went on with a rapid, buoyant walk

Like ships in a fair wind. They looked twice dead,

The shades that drew amazement at me through

Their deep eye-ports, aware I was alive.

I went on with my talk, referring to

The shade of Statius. “He will arrive

On high,” I said, “more slowly than he could,

Perhaps, because of Virgil. But now tell   10

Me of Piccarda. Also if I should

Take note of any among these, so well

Equipped to gaze at me.” “More fair than good,

More good than fair? My sister is on high,

Triumphant in Olympus, glory-crowned.”

He said first that, then this: “Here we must try

To name names when we can, our faces ground

To dust with fasting, drained completely dry.

That one is Bonagiunta, who made rhymes

In Lucca, and beyond him, one who held   20

The whole Church in his arms in recent times,

Martin of Tours, a great heart too impelled

By greed, and so his face, more than the rest,

Is seamed, and he must fast to purge the eels

Of Lake Bolsena that he thought the best,

And drowned in wine and roasted. The mind reels.”

And many others he named one by one,

And none of them seemed displeased to be named:

Not one dark look while this was being done,

For if I, in the world, could make them famed   30

For being saved, then harm there would be none.

Ubaldin della Pila I saw chew

On emptiness because he’d lingered so,

And Bonifazio, archbishop, who

Pastured his flocks high up, and, as we know,

Set his expenses higher. I saw, too,

Forlì’s fine man Marchese, who had space

Down there to drink with far more thirst than here,

And yet he never drank his fill. The place

Was full of them, yet, as one does with sheer   40

Numbers, I noticed some above the crowd,

And so returned to Bonagiunta. He

Seemed most to want to know me, and, aloud,

But only just, he muttered this for me:

“Gentucca,” meaning “little folk.” The word

Barely emerged from where he felt the pain

Of justice most, his throat. But, having heard,

I spoke, believing he might brave the strain.

“Spirit that seems so eager to be freed

To tell me something,” I said, “have a care   50

To say it plainly and thus meet the need

Of both yourself and me.” “Back there,”

He said, “a woman’s born who will indeed

Bear glowing fruit, though she does not yet wear

The wimple of the wed. And she will make

My city please you. Armed with this forecast

You go your way again, and if you take

A wrong turn from my muttering, at last

The facts will make all clear. But now reveal

If you I see before me really made   60

The new rhyme, lyrical as well as real—

The craft of language at its highest grade—

Beginning with ‘You ladies who know love’?”

And I to him: “Yes, I am one that when

Inspired by love, notes what is spoken of

Within, and makes it sing to other men.”

“Brother,” he said, “now I can see the knot

That held back Jacopo and all the school

Of Sicily; Guittone and his lot

Of Tuscans who wrote verse to the old rule;   70

And kept me, too, short of the Sweet New Style

I hear now. I see well how love dictates

The movement of your pen, which, all the while

The heart speaks, follows close, and never waits.

It’s certain this was far from true for us,

And anyone who sets out to detect

A difference, will find no more to discuss

Between our style and yours but that aspect:

The things we hinted at, you said outright.”

And he was silent, as if satisfied   80

With his analysis. As cranes in flight

Along the Nile in winter make a wide

Array sometimes, and sometimes pull in tight

To get more speed by going one behind

The other, so these people faced around

And quickened step as if all of one mind,

By leanness and the wish to cover ground

Made light of foot. Like one who cannot find

More breath to run and lets his fellows pass

And walks until his chest no longer heaves,   90

Forese waved away that holy class

And stayed with me, and as to one who leaves

Too soon to suit us, spoke. “How long before

I see you here again?” And I: “How long

Am I to live? I don’t know. Yet this shore

I’d sooner see again than know the wrong

Of where I have been put to live, which more

And more divests itself of good from day

To day, with ruin waiting down the trail.”

“And I,” he said, “can see now who will pay   100

For that disaster. Dragged by a beast’s tail

Towards the valley out of which no way

Leads back again, my brother Corso’s drawn

Faster with every foul step of the beast

Until he is dashed down and left there, torn

Revoltingly to pieces, a crows’ feast.

These wheels”—he pointed upwards—“will not turn

Too often before what I have to tell

Will be more plain than I can say. You’ll learn:

But now I have to leave you. A short spell   110

Of time is precious here. I lose too much

By lingering.” And as a horseman rides

Out at a gallop, proud of losing touch

With his brigade, and goes to where resides

The glory of the first encounter, just

That way he went from us with longer strides,

And back on earth we would have eaten dust,

I and the two great worldlings. We remained,

And when he was so far ahead my eyes

Lost sight of him no matter how they strained—   120

As my mind lost his words—to my surprise

The branches of another tree appeared

As we came round the bend, and it was full

Of fruit, and green, and I saw, as we neared,

People beneath it lift, as if to pull

Fruit free, their hands towards the foliage,

Crying I know not what, as children do

Who, thoughtless, beg, and get into a rage

Of begging when the thing they beckon to

Unbidden, is held up to make them keen.   130

Then off they went as if they realised

How futile all their clamouring had been,

And to the tree that held the things they prized

We came, the mighty tree which can withstand

So many prayers and tears. “Do not come close.

Pass on, for far above, and not at hand,

There is the tree Eve ate of for her dose

Of knowledge, and this one is just a sprig

From that.” Emerging from the leaves’ green shrouds

The hidden voice went on. “Recall how, big   140

With food and wine, those creatures of the clouds,

The cursed centaurs, reeled under the blows

Of Theseus when they chased women. Keep

Also in mind the Hebrew soldiers: those

Who at the fountain drank themselves to sleep

So Gideon, when he took Midian,

Left them behind.” So, passing on, we kept

To the wall side, regaled with tales of men

And gluttony, and what it earned. We stepped,

Spread out, a thousand steps along   150

The lonely road, each wrapped in silent thought,

Concerned with appetite, its right and wrong.

A sudden voice said “Give me your report

Of what you think of as you go, you three

All by yourselves.” I started, as do scared

And timid beasts. I raised my head to see

Who this was. Never in a furnace flared

Metal or glass so glowing red as he.

The angel said “If up high you would climb

Here you must turn to find the peaceful sky.”   160

His aspect stole my eyesight for a time

So that I trailed my teachers only by

My hearing. And just as the breeze of May,

Dawn’s herald, when it stirs, gives out perfume

So full of grass and flowers, in that way

I felt a wind, fanned by each fluttering plume

Of his wing, strike my brow, and I could sense

The odour of ambrosia. “How blessed

They are who are lit up by such intense

Grace that the appetite within their breast   170

Stirs not the fumes of a too great desire,

But just the hunger justice might require.”

CANTO 25

The sun was in the Ram, and had declined

Two hours from noon, which left the Bull on high

In the meridian. By that same kind

Of movement, night had quit the tallest sky

Above Jerusalem, so you would find

The Scorpion up there if you could look,

And we were short of time for our ascent.

Pressed in advance for all the time it took,

We were as one that no impediment

Can stop, because necessity, his goad,   10

Pricks him continually, and our small crew

Met one by one the next stage on our road

By entering a gap so tight that you

Were forced to climb alone on its stone stairs.

And as the little stork might lift one wing

To quit the nest and thereby prove it dares

To fly but then pretends that no such thing

Had crossed its mind and drops the wing again,

Just so was I with my desire to ask

A question, and I almost spoke, but then   20

I didn’t. My Guide, equal to the task,

For all our speed of foot, did not refrain.

“Your bow of speech,” he said, “is tightly drawn

Right to the arrowhead and creaks with strain.

Please let it loose.” With confidence reborn,

This time I got the words out. “How do they

Get thin when there’s no need of nourishment?”

And he: “If only you recall the way

Meleager’s life was lived and wholly spent

In one brand’s burning, this point won’t be hard   30

For you, and if you also think of how

Your image in the glass meets your regard

With every move you make—not soon, but now,

Exactly similar—yet isn’t real,

You’ll find it easier to realise

That souls can well reflect what bodies feel

And make it seem substantial to your eyes.

But just to set your puzzlement at rest

I call on Statius, and bid him heal

Your wounds.” “If in your presence I attend,”   40

Said Statius, “to spirits seen as real—

Although the actual body is long gone—

In the eternal life, it is because

I can’t refuse you.” That said, he went on:

“My son, if, in your mind, you open doors

To take my words in, I can demonstrate

How this can be. The thirsty veins do not

Drink perfect blood, which, sharing the pure state

Of food kept from the table, takes in what

The heart confers, the power to generate   50

The future body’s parts. Like blood that takes

The standard course through veins to fashion these,

The perfect heart’s blood subsequently makes

Its way down to where words are bound to please

Less than a decent silence, and from there

It joins another’s blood in the right place,

The natural vessel. In this way the pair

Of matched streams mingle as they share the space:

One passive, and the other, since it flows

From sheer perfection, active. The twinned stream   60

Begins to function as its thickness grows,

Coagulating, quickening its seam

Of virtue into potent readiness—

A soul, much as a plant’s, but not the same,

Because the plant’s soul sets out never less

Than all set to arrive, whereas the frame

Of this soul is sea fungus at the most.

It moves, it feels, it goes on to produce

Organs for faculties. It is the host

Of every little thing and each thing’s use   70

That grows out of its seed. And now, my son,

The force unfolds and spreads out of the heart

Of the begetter, until all is one,

And nature has made shift for every part

And member. But you can’t see how it’s done

As yet—quite how from the dumb animal

A creature comes that speaks—and neither could

A wiser one than you. He saw it all,

Except one special part that would come good

And be the mind. No, Aristotle thought   80

The intellect was separate from the soul

And common to all men, and so he taught.

But open up your breast now to the whole

Truth of this tricky matter. It’s like so:

No sooner does the structure of the brain

Get organised within the embryo

Than in comes the First Mover might and main,

Happy at nature’s work of art, and gives

A potent inspiration to it, which

Incorporates all that already lives   90

In there, and so a single soul made rich

By these two elements begins to thrive,

And feel, and think. And lest these words of mine

Astonish you, of how men come alive,

Consider how the sun’s heat turns to wine

When it combines with the substantial juice

That pours from the pulped grapes plucked from the vine.

Or think how, from the flesh, the soul pulls loose

When Lachesis runs out of flax. It takes

Along with it all the potentials for   100

The faculties: that is, whatever makes

The human or divine. The first no more

Are heard, the second (memory and thought

And will, the things that nothing can confer

Save the divine), freed from their last resort

In flesh, are more acute than they once were.

And so the soul falls, marvellously, towards

One of two shores (and all this will occur

Without a pause): the Tiber’s, where it boards

The boat sent for the saved, or else the dark   110

Bank of the Acheron. And then it first

Becomes aware of how it will embark

And where it’s bound. As soon as it’s immersed

In space, its formative essential force

Sends out its rays, in just those shapes they took

For living members, taking the same course

That sunbeams take in rain-soaked air: we look

And see the colours. Thus the air around

Will set itself into the self-same form

The soul had when alive. There will be found   120

A stamp of the soul’s power. Though not as warm,

The shape will, as the flame follows the fire,

Follow the spirit. Since it has by this

Its image from then on, so we require,

To fit it, the name “shade,” for emphasis

On insubstantial visibility,

And from this air, organs for every sense

Are formed, even for sight. As we can see,

We speak, and smile, and weep, and heave intense

Sighs of the depth that might have met your ears   130

Here on this hill. As our desires impinge

On us, the shade takes form, and so appears—

At which you marvel.” We were at the hinge

Of the last torment, taking a right turn,

And faced another care. Out from the bank

Flames shoot. To bend them, as they burn,

The path sends up a blast from its far flank

So that the fire is kept back. Thus we had,

One at a time, to take the open side.

For me this had two ways of being bad,   140

Since on the one hand there was this hot tide

Of fire to face, and on the other I

Feared falling. “Along here we must draw tight

On our eyes’ reins, lest our steps go awry.”

But then I heard, in that great burning light,

A song: Summae Deus Clementiae—

The hymn that tells us chastity is right—

Which made me keen to turn. Within

The flames were spirits walking, so I kept

Looking at them, my stunned glance hard to win   150

Away from them and back to where I stepped,

My gaze divided. Their hymn fully sung,

They cried what Mary said to Gabriel,

Thus: “Virum non cognosco” (in our tongue,

“No man was with me”), for the world knows well

That she was chaste. And then they all began

To sing the hymn again, and at the end,

This time, they cried “Diana hid from man

Deep in the woods, and would not keep for friend

The nymph Callisto, who with Jove had lain,   160

But banished her because she dared to drink

The poison Venus pours, the wine of pain.”

And then they sang again—and will, I think,

First sing, then cry, then sing for all the time

They burn—of all the husbands and the wives

Who keep their marriage free of that sad crime

By being chaste, as wedlock wants our lives

To be. And with such precepts and such prayer

The last wound of them all we may repair.

CANTO 26

While one before the other thus we went

Along the edge, my Master often said

“Watch out, for what I warn is truly meant.”

The sun now struck me, not from overhead,

But more on my right shoulder, for its beams

Changed all the west from azure into white,

But as pale fire, when cloaked with shadow, seems

More glowing, so my shadow made the light

More visible—for many shades a sign

To heed, and their first cause to speak of me,   10

Deducing that my flesh might still be mine.

“His body,” said one, “does not seem to be

Unreal.” And some approached me, just as near

As they could come without their breaking through

To where they would not burn: their only fear.

One spoke: “Pray answer, going as you do

Behind the others, not for tardiness

Perhaps, but more for reverence: say what’s true.

Not only I, who burn with thirst, no less

From fire, long for an answer, but all these   20

Long for it as an Ethiopian

Dreams of cold water. Therefore tell me, please,

How comes it you’re a wall that stops the sun

As if so far you have escaped death’s net?”

So spoke one, and I would have said my name

Right then, had my attention not been set

On something else strange. Through the hall of flame,

And facing opposite to those we’d met,

Came people whose appearance held my gaze

Suspended. Then the shades on either side    30

Make haste to kiss each other, a mere graze,

Because they neither break nor slow their stride.

Just as the ants in their dark troop will touch

Muzzle to muzzle—as they ask the way,

Perhaps, or how the day goes—it was such

With these, who, ending their brief interplay,

Before they took their next step to move on,

Each tries his hardest to outshout the rest.

The ones who just arrived, to get them gone,

Cry “Sodom and Gomorrah!” and attest   40

To lusts in spite of nature, while the first

Group we encountered cries out “Pasiphae

Enters the cow to slake her raging thirst

With what the bull brings!” and so testify

To natural lusts ungoverned. Then, like cranes

That fly, some to the mountains in the north

And some south to the sand—for none remains

Of these when the frost comes, and those go forth

When too much sun shines—so the two crowds go

Their separate ways, and all return with tears   50

To their first chanting, and the cry they know

Befits their weakness. By their looks all ears,

Those came close who’d entreated me before.

Twice having seen their need, I said: “Souls who

Are bound to have, at the right time, your store

Of peace, my limbs are not left, either new

Or old, back there. They’re here, both blood and joint.

It is to be no longer blind I climb.

A lady waits above fit to appoint

The grace for me by which I conquer time,   60

Bringing my mortal body through your world.

But so your greatest wish may soon be met

Where heaven’s love most widely is unfurled

In highest light, say now—so I may yet

Put pen to parchment—who you are and what

That crowd is that goes back behind you there.”

The mountain man’s no more stunned by his lot

When, rough and rustic, with a speechless stare,

He comes into the city, than each shade

Was now, but when they were relieved of that   70

Amazement—which will always quickly fade

In lofty hearts—the one who, puzzled at

My shadow, first had spoken, spoke again:

“How you are blessed, you that, to better die,

Take on experience from us! Those men

Who go the other way from us and cry

So differently, were guilty of that lust

For which, in triumph, Caesar heard the call

‘Regina!’ from the crowd, and so they must

Go crying ‘Sodom!’ as you heard, for all   80

With self-reproach and shame thus reinforce

Their burning. Our sin, on the other hand,

Was double-sexed, but ran outside the course

Of human law, our hunger in command

As with the beasts. So, parting, we cry now

Her name, who made—we add, to our disgrace—

Herself a beast, inside the timber cow:

A beast within a beast. We’re in this place

For deeds you now know, and our guilt as well.

If you would know our names, time would be short   90

To tell you, if I could. But I can tell

You this much: I can satisfy your thought

About who I might be, and who I was.

I’m Guido Guinizelli, and I make

Already my purgation here because

I sorrowed properly for my soul’s sake

Before the end.” As when Lycurgus grieved

For his child, and brought to the point of death

The woman whose neglect left him bereaved,

But her two sons staved off her dying breath   100

By rushing to embrace her, so, with some

Restraint, did I become, to hear him speak

His name, father of me and all that come

Along with me (and some make me look weak):

All those who speak the sweet and graceful rhymes

Of love, and deaf and dumb I went along

A long way, thoughtful, gazing many times

At him, the founder of our school of song,

But kept from coming near him by the fire.

My sight of him once fed, I offered him   110

My services for all he might require,

Assuring him that this was no mere whim.

And he to me: “You leave a trace so clear

In me, that Lethe can’t destroy or dim

What you have told me. If you hold me dear,

However—if your words are true—you should

Also inform me why your look and speech

Show that. Make your affection understood.”

And I to him: “Sir, your sweet lines that reach

From your time into ours and which will last   120

As long as people talk, have made their ink

Eternal treasure.” “Brother, only cast

Your glance at him ahead, and you might think

Again,” he said, while pointing. “He surpassed

Me as a master of the mother tongue.

He was the better craftsman in all forms

Of love verse and romantic tales. Among

Their writers he stood out. As for the swarms

Of idiots who hail the boring stuff

Of Giraut from Limoges, they think to heed   130

A widespread reputation is enough

To judge the truth, as if we might not need

To hear from art or reason. The same thing

Once happened with Guittone. One cracked voice

Croaked to the next that only he could sing.

But finally most made the proper choice,

The Sweet New Style. Now, if you have been graced

With so much favour that you have the right

To see the cloister where Christ is emplaced

As abbot of the brotherhood, you might   140

Say, just for me, a Paternoster, trimmed

Of its last words, for here the power to sin

Is gone from us, and so the need is dimmed

For that whole prayer.” That others might move in,

Perhaps, and take his place, he disappeared

Into the fire as when a fish goes down

To the bottom through the water. Then I neared

The one who, for the sake of his renown,

Had earlier been pointed out. His name,

I told him, had a place of welcome set   150

In my enquiring soul, and so it came

To be that he spoke thus: “We are well met.

Your courtly question pleases me so much

I neither may nor could hold back the news

Of who I am from one with such a touch

For gentle manners. How can I refuse?”

Matching his mind to his expressive style,

In Provencal his eloquence was cast.

“I am Arnaut, who weeps and sings the while

He walks. I see my follies of the past   160

With grief, and yet I still see with a smile

The day I hope I will attain at last.

And now I beg of you, by that great good

Which guides you to the summit of the stairs,

That you will think of, and have understood

In time, my sins and penitential cares.”

The furnace that refines them shone so bright,

When he stepped back he vanished in the light.

CANTO 27

As when it shoots its first rays where the One

Who made it shed His blood, and when, in Spain,

The Scales are overhead with night half done,

And noon burns on the Ganges’ gathered rain,

So here, nigh on to sinking, stood the sun.

The day, therefore, was all set to depart,

When God’s glad angel showed himself outside

The flames, and “Blessèd are the pure in heart,”

He sang, his voice far clearer than my Guide

Or I could boast. “There is no way ahead   10

Unless you brave the fire and feel its sting.

So enter, holy souls, and then be led

With open ears by what the voices sing,”

He said when we were near, while I became,

To hear him, like one laid low in his grave.

I stretched up my clasped hands, gazed at the flame,

Imagining how once, in a deep cave,

I had seen bodies burning. Then, to me,

My escorts turned, and Virgil said: “My son,

There may be torment here: death, there can’t be.   20

Recall, recall! Even on Geryon

I kept you safe. So what shall I do here,

Nearer to God? You may well rest assured,

If you stayed in these flames year after year—

A thousand years—their fire could not afford

One singed hair to your head, so never fear:

And if, perhaps, you think that I deceive,

Go close, try with your hands and with the edge

Of what you wear, and then you will believe.

You’ll put off every qualm and you will pledge   30

Your trust.” Yet I continued to stand still,

Still hesitant, though I had no defence

Against my conscience. When he saw my will

To stay was so unbending and intense,

A little troubled he said “Now, son, look.

Dividing you from Beatrice is this wall.”

And as we read in the time-honoured book

Of Pyramus and Thisbe, before all

The mulberry turned red he raised his eyes,

While dying, towards her, just so my streak   40

Of stubbornness dissolved, and to my wise

Leader I turned, for I had heard him speak

The name forever vivid in my mind,

At which he frowned, and said “Are we to stay

Always on this side?” But his smile was kind,

As if aimed at a child that we can sway

With just an apple. Then, with me behind,

He put himself into the wall of flame,

First having asked of Statius, who had

Been so long in between us as we came,   50

To follow on. And how I’d have been glad

To jump into a vat of boiling glass

Just to get cool, so did it burn beyond

All measure there where this had come to pass.

And my sweet father, in his voice so fond

To comfort me in my fear, said “I swear

I see her eyes already.” Then a voice

To guide us sang before us, and on where

It seemed to come from we had little choice

Save fixing all our heed, and where the stair   60

Began, we came forth. There, within a light,

“Come forward all you that my father blessed,”

The voice sang, so that, startled by its might,

I couldn’t look. And then it sang the rest:

“The sun gives way,” it sang, “and soon the night

Will come. Don’t stop. Before the west grows dark,

Step out.” The way went straight up through the rock

At such a pitch I cut off the last spark

Of sunlight. The sun low, I was a block

To its weak rays, and we had barely gone   70

A few steps, when I and my sages saw,

By how my shadow failed to linger on,

The sun had set behind us, and before

The vast horizon had as yet assumed

One colour, and night ruled in all domains,

Each chose a step for bed. The mountain loomed,

And though we much desired to take the pains

Of climbing further, it denied our wish,

To do so, for its laws do not allow

Travel in darkness. Goats that were kittenish   80

And frisky on the heights are languid now,

Chewing the cud and silent in the shade,

Watched by the shepherd who leans on his staff

Yet, leaning, tends them lest a beast invade

His quiet flock and scatter them like chaff.

Just so were we three—though the goat was I

And they the shepherds—shut in on each side

By that high rock, and not much of the sky

Could I see, but in that gap gleamed a pride

Of stars, and they were bigger than I’d seen   90

Before, and brighter. There I lay to ruminate

And stargaze. Sleep, which frequently has been

First to announce what would eventuate

In my life, seized me. In the hour, I guess,

Before dawn, when sweet Venus in the east

First lights the mountain with her endlessness

Of loving fire insensibly increased,

I seemed to see, and see as if I dreamed,

A beautiful young lady gathering

Flowers in a meadow. As she went, she seemed,   100

While stooping for the pretty blooms, to sing:

“Whoever wants to ask my name should know

It’s Leah, and I pluck, with hands so fair,

The makings of a garland as I go.

I like the look, but love the open air.

My sister Rachel, on the other hand,

Sits always at her glass, as keen to see

Her own bright eyes as I am for the land

Beneath my feet. But there you are, that’s me:

I like to do, she likes to understand.”   110

And now the radiant splendours before dawn—

Always more welcome to the pilgrim when

He lodges closer to where he was born—

Chased off the shadows on all sides, and then

My sleep as well, and so I rose, to find

My mentors up already. “That sweet fruit

Of Eden which you mortals have in mind

At all times, with your hunger so acute

You seek it out on every bough, today

Will give peace to your craving.” Never was   120

There such a boon as I heard my Guide say.

Desire upon desire, without a pause,

Came over me to be above. I felt,

With every step, my feathers grow. Steps sped

Beneath us so the stairway seemed to melt,

And on the top step Virgil turned and said:

“You’ve seen the temporary fires up here,

And seen the fires of Hell that burn always,

And now, my son, the place is very near

Where I myself see nothing. Through the maze   130

I’ve brought you here with all my mind and art,

By which your nature has been purified.

It’s ready now to play the major part.

From here on, you yourself must be your guide.

Steep ways and tight opposed you. You came through.

The sun shines on your brow. Now see the grass.

The trees and flowers here that spring anew

From this fresh ground are all yours as you pass.

Until those fair eyes come to welcome you

Which will rejoice as once they came to weep   140

To me for your plight, you may sit among

These glories or go walking. But don’t keep

A vigil any longer for my tongue:

No word or any sign can you expect

From me. My work is done. Your will is whole

And free and upright, sure of its effect,

So don’t deny its bidding. Of your soul

I make you captain. Most blessed among men,

Move on. You’ll never hear from me again.”

CANTO 28

Eager to search the dense, divine and green

Forest, to know it, both inside and out,

This place through which the new day could be seen

With splendour tempered, while from all about

Fragrance converged on me, I left the bank

Without the guidance of a word or sign

From Virgil, and with my own will to thank

I made my slow way in a level line

Across the ground. A sweet unchanging air

Fondled my brow, the soft force of a breeze   10

Bending the trembling boughs to that point where

The mountain’s shadow first falls. At their ease

The boughs were swayed, and still remained upright

Enough for all the little birds to sing

Out of the tree-tops where they spent the night

And now turned their fine arts to welcoming

The morning hours, ecstatic in the leaves

Which gave an undertone to their sweet rhymes

As, near Ravenna, the Sirocco cleaves

The air—one of the winds, in ancient times,   20

Locked up by Aeolus—and the pine wood

Murmurs from branch to branch. Slow steps by then

Had brought me, from the place where I first stood

To enter, so far through the trees that when

I looked back I could not see whence I came,

But now my further progress was cut short

By a small stream whose tiny waves made game

To bend the grass that hedged its lively sport

Leftward. And all the waters that win fame

Here in the world for purity, would seem   30

Defiled compared to this. Though it flows dark

In the perpetual shade where not a gleam

Of moon or blaze of sun may light a spark

Below the surface, yet it can conceal

Nothing. My feet stopped there, while my sight passed

Over the stream, drawn forth by the appeal

Of freshly flowering branches in their vast

Variety. I saw that scene reveal—

As suddenly as when a thing for awe

Drives out our thoughts—a lady all alone   40

Who sang and picked the flowers that lay before

As she went on her way, her lilting tone

Matching the lightness of the petals. “Pray,

Fair lady, by love’s fondling beams made warm,

If I am to believe what your looks say

Must be your heart’s exalted inward form,

Come nearer to the stream, so that I may

Hear what you sing. For you make me recall

Proserpine, when she plucked flowers too,

And Pluto took her, scattering them all.   50

Her mother lost her and she lost the new

Glory that comes each year.” With the slight fall

Of quick foot when the dancing woman turns

With feet together, neither one advanced

By more than just a touch—and one who learns

To do this tells you she has always danced

By her ease only—this one turned to me

On the red and yellow flowers like a veiled

Virgin with modest glance, and met my plea

With song, approaching so her sweet sound sailed   60

To reach me with its meaning. Then, when she

Was where the grassy edge was lapped and bathed

By the river’s lovely waves, she had the grace

To lift her eyes to me, and they were swathed

In light, poured from her lids to flood her face

With such a brilliance that I don’t believe

Venus herself gave out in her surprise

When Cupid let loose and could not retrieve

His accidental arrow as her eyes

Were on Adonis. While she stood upright   70

On the other bank, she smiled as she arranged

Her many colours, flowering at that height

With no seeds needed. We two were estranged

By just the distance that the stream was wide:

Three paces only. But the Hellespont—

Where Xerxes had to cross back with his pride

In ruins, and Leander, for his want

Of Hero, had to swim from side to side

From Sestos to Abydos—never got

More hatred than this pretty trickle earned   80

From me, who wished it gone, but it was not.

“You’re new here. There are things you haven’t learned,”

She said, “And it’s perhaps because I smile

In this place set apart for humankind

To be its nest, you nurse your doubts awhile,

And there are clouds that linger in your mind.

But Delectasti is the psalm you should

Remember: ‘Lord, your work has made me glad,

And I will triumph.’ Those words, understood

Aright, for any qualms you ever had,   90

Will clear the mist with light. Now you are near

Before me, and are making your request,

So tell me if there’s more that you would hear.

I’ll set your curiosity at rest.”

“This water, and the branches, how they sound,”

I said, “fly in the face of what I heard

From Statius, of how this higher ground

Can never change.” And she: “Because the word

And fact seem different things, you marvel. How

This came to be, proceeding from its cause,   100

I can unravel for you here and now.

The Good Supreme, the grand sum of whose laws

Is His own pleasure, made man good, and made

Man love the good, and gave him this good place,

The Earthly Paradise. Man could have stayed

In peace here always. Such was not the case.

Through his own fault, his stay was only brief,

And honest laughter and sweet sport gave way

To tears, hard labour and abiding grief.

That the disturbances which, night and day,   110

The exhalations of the sea and land

Make there below—following where they may,

As students of those matters understand,

The ebb and flow of heat—should do no harm

To man, the mountain rose aloft thus far

To stand clear from the banished, and be calm.

But since the outer spheres, revolving, are

Moved by the Primum Mobile, that first

Rotation, unless interrupted, strikes

On this height—all impurities dispersed   120

From its surrounding air—and as it likes

It does. It makes the wood, for being dense,

Resound. The smitten plants have such

A potency, the air with their intense

Virtue is impregnated at a touch,

And so the wind must scatter it abroad,

And so the Northern Hemisphere, as both

Its fit self and its proper sky accord,

Brings forth, from diverse virtues, different growth.

This understood, small marvel would it seem   130

Down yonder, if some plant, no seed on show,

Should take root. In accordance with that theme,

This holy ground has every seed you know

Filling the soil, and fruits that are not picked

Back there. This water springs forth from no vein

Restored by vapour that the harshly strict

Cold has condensed (as earthly rivers gain

And lose their force), but from a constant, sure

Fountain it comes, and what pours forth like rain

By God’s will must return to fill a store   140

Open on either side. Thus virtue flows

Down one side, so, when men are bathed with it,

Their very memory of sin all goes,

And, on the other side, the opposite

Occurs, and memories of their good deeds

Return. The stream, on this side, bears the name

Of Lethe; on that, Eunoe. It needs

First to be sipped at from both sides the same

To be effective, and there is no taste

Sweeter than this. And though your thirst may well   150

Be satisfied by this outline I’ve traced,

There’s something more that I feel bound to tell

Just for your joy, and though these words may go

Beyond my brief, I think you’ll find they meet

Your approbation. Those old names you know

Who once sang of a golden age replete

With happiness, perhaps exulted so

Because they dreamed of this place. On their peak,

Parnassus, their minds filled with this one. Spring

Eternal. Human innocence. All speak   160

Of just such fruit, nectar in everything.

Ovid himself said all this would come true.”

She paused. Right then I turned around to my

Two poets, and I saw what they could do

Instead of speech. They smiled, and she was why.

Then once again the fair one caught my eye.

CANTO 29

When I turned back to her I heard the rest.

Though she had done with speaking, she sang on,

As if in love, “But how all those are blessed

Whose sins are pardoned!” and I was far gone

In thoughts of nymphs, alone in woodland shade,

Who wander, one alert to see the sun,

The other to avoid it. So she made

Her way upstream against the rippling run,

With little steps along the bank, and I

Kept level. In a hundred strides or less   10

The two banks made an equal bend, and by

My reckoning, which I’d call a good guess,

We now faced east again. We’d not gone far

That way, when suddenly she turned, and said:

“My brother, look and listen.” Few things are

Sudden like lightning. This was. In my head,

As brightness swept the forest all around,

I told myself it must be lightning, yet,

Since lightning disappears as soon as found,

And this grew brighter still, I hedged my bet,   20

And asked myself “What’s this?” And then a sound,

A melody, ran sweet through shining air,

And so my zeal for good caused me to blame

Eve’s boldness, that a woman—when and where

All in the earth and sky obeyed the same

Divine will—should decline to further bear

(For she was only just formed, and alone)

The veil of ignorance, for, had she stayed

Submissive underneath it, I’d have known,

Like all men, this whole limitless parade   30

Of indescribable delights before,

And for far longer. While I went among

So many first fruits in the mighty store

Of bliss eternal—while my will was hung

Suspended in desire of all the more

Of joys and miracles—the air caught fire

Beneath the green boughs, and that lovely sound

Exploded into songs, choir upon choir.

Virgins most holy! Muses! Stony ground,

Cold, hunger, vigils, I have borne for you, not true?   40

But now my need drives me to ask reward.

Now let the whole of Helicon come through

With what it owes me, all it can afford.

Urania and her singers should step in

To help me versify things hard for thought,

Such as the following. I can begin

By saying that my puzzled eye was caught,

A little further on, by seven trees

Of gold, or what appeared to us as such,

A false impression reinforced to please   50

Our credulous perception by how much

Distance remained from us to them. But when

I’d come so near that these deceiving shapes

Remained ambiguous no longer, then

The faculty which no deceit escapes,

The power of reason, saw them as they were:

As candlesticks, and heard the voices sing

“Hosanna!” And up there without a blur

It flew alone, the lovely spreading thing.

More than the moon in the clear midnight sky   60

Of her mid-month, that fine array was bright.

I turned around with wonder in my eye

To Virgil, and his look had the same light

Of sheer amazement, and I lifted high

My face again to those things, which moved near

To us so slowly new brides would have been

More quick. The lady scorned me. “You appear

Amazed by just the living lights you’ve seen.

Where is your heed for what is not yet here

Yet comes behind them?” I saw people, then,   70

Who followed, clad in white: white so intense

As here there never was, and then again

The water shone so to my left, that hence,

As from a mirror, came my left side back

To my eyes when I gazed. When I was at

The part where just the streamlet kept my track

From meeting theirs, for a better view than that

I paused, and let the flames move on, to stain

Like streaming pennons all the air behind

With seven tinctures, as the sun and rain   80

Bring forth a bow in colours of rich kind,

And Delian Diana’s girdle glows.

Beyond my sight the banners went back, and

As well as mortal eyes see or mind knows,

The outermost exemplars of that band

Of candelabra were ten paces set

Apart. Beneath the fair sky I describe,

Two dozen elders crowned with lilies met

My gaze two at a time. “Among the tribe

Of Adam’s daughters,” they sang, “you are blessed,   90

And blessed forever let your beauty be!”

The flowers and fresh leaves were left to rest

On the far bank by that light infantry

Of the elect. As brilliance follows soon

On brilliance there in heaven, came four more

Creatures on after, and these had the boon

Of green-leaf crowns, and each one of the four

Had six wings, all their plumage full of eyes,

And if the eyes of Argus were alive

They’d look like that. But lack of time denies   100

That I be lavish with my rhymes, and strive

In their depiction. Read Ezekiel,

Who saw them when they came in from the cold

With wind and cloud and fire, and just as well

As he described them then, his words of old

Applied here, save the figure of six wings

That Revelation gives them meets my count,

And not his four. (John had the truth of things

In this respect, and got the right amount.)

But anyway, between those four the space   110

Contained a fine two-wheeled triumphal car

Drawn by a griffin, which employed the place

On each side of the middle band—as far

On each side as the first of three—to spread

Its wings among the coloured streaks without

Cutting through any, and the wings instead

Rose so high that their tips left you in doubt

Where they might be. Where this bird could be said

To be bird, it was all gold, and where man,

Was white mingled with red. Nor even Rome   120

Had honoured Scipio the African

Or great Augustus, when it cheered them home,

With so exultant a conveyance. Not

The sun itself could equal it: the sun

Whose carriage was destroyed when Phaethon got

His signals mixed, and Jove paid heed to one

Of Earth’s devout prayers. He chose to be just

In secret counsel. And three ladies danced

A round at the right wheel. One, red as rust,

Was so red you’d have missed her had she pranced   130

Inside a fire. One more of emerald

Seemed made. The third looked like fresh-fallen snow.

The white one first, and then the red one, called

The time, and from that song’s pulse, fast or slow,

They moved. And on the left, four others tripped

Their festival. They were in purple clad,

Their measure set by one who hopped and skipped

With three eyes in her head. The whole troop had,

Behind it, two old men in different dress,

From one another, but alike in grave   140

And lofty bearing, their shared seriousness.

One showed the spirit by which nature gave

The world Hippocrates, to help mankind

When ill. The other showed the opposite

Concern, for its sword, lifted, chilled my mind

Across the river’s width, so brightly lit

And sharp it seemed, to castigate the soul.

Then came four humble holy ones. At last

An old man walked who slept, and yet his whole

Expression spoke for keenness. As they passed,   150

The final seven looked clad like the first,

Except this time no lily crowns were worn,

But roses and red flowers, an outburst

Of crimson round the brow I would have sworn,

From where I stood, was fire. And then a halt

Was called. A mighty thunderclap was heard.

The car had stopped, right there. The storm’s assault

Appeared to mean permission was deferred

For that throng to go further. There it stood,

The pageant, flags in front. The force for good.   160

CANTO 30

Unlike the Bear that helps us navigate,

But still its seven stars must come and go

Or wear a misty veil, it was the state

Of this Wain, here above, to never know

Such flux. In their First Heaven they stood still,

The seven candelabra. Only sin

Could fluster them. They shone on, to fulfil

Their task. Between their light and the griffin

The truthful squad turned to the car as will

A man who seeks peace. Like a messenger   10

From Heaven, one sang out this line. “My spouse,

Now come with me from Lebanon.” Nor were

The others slow to match him. As the house

Of all the blessed shall fill, at the last blast

Of trumpets, with souls leaping from the tomb,

Their voices once again what in the past

They were, and their song for the crack of doom

Will ring out Hallelujah! thus arose

There on the car, called by the elder’s voice,

A hundred representatives of those   20

Who speak for life eternal. “Yours the choice

To come, and you are blessed,” they cried, and threw

Flowers aloft and all around, and then

They quoted Virgil, all of whom they knew,

Transmitting God’s word through the words of men:

“Give lilies with full hands.” At break of day

I once saw all the eastern vista turn

Rose coloured, and the sky, clear every way

Elsewhere, was lovely, for the sun’s full burn

Was softened as its face glowed in a shroud   30

Of vapours, and the naked eye could bear

The sight a long time. So, within a cloud

Of flowers rising here and falling there,

Flung from the angels’ hands, a lady shone,

Her white veil girt with olive, mantle green,

Fretted with living fire. And then my soul,

Which had for years felt no cause for the awe

By which her living form once made my whole

Existence tremble, now, though barred from more

Knowledge by eye, still registered the force   40

Of hidden virtue and my erstwhile love.

Sight struck by virtue in its lofty course—

Pierced once again, now I was here above,

As once I was in boyhood—I turned left

With confidence, as any child will run

To mother when of fortitude bereft,

And said to Virgil “Not a drop, not one

Of blood remains in me that does not shake.

I know the sure signs of an ancient flame.”

But Virgil, who’d done so much for my sake,   50

Virgil my father, Virgil, he that came

For me to give myself and him to take

Me onward to salvation, now was gone.

Nor did all Eden’s sweetness, lost by Eve,

The ancient mother, take effect upon

My cheeks, dew-washed so all tear-stains should leave,

But here they were again. She said “Dante,

Weep not that Virgil leaves you, weep not yet.

For you must yet weep in another way,

For your sins.” Just then, when I tried to get   60

A clear view of the figure that so spoke

My name—I note this, just to pay my debt

To sheer necessity—there, at a stroke,

I saw a lady at the car’s left side,

A fleet commander gone from stern to prow

To see the other captains fight the tide

Of hardship and to urge them on, and now

The lady, who had just appeared to me

Veiled in the festival of angels, fixed

Her eyes on mine beyond the stream, and she,   70

Although her veil was still full, and was mixed

With olive leaves, which was Minerva’s sign,

And therefore she could not be plainly seen,

Yet royally, like one with the design

Of holding back the heat her words might mean

While speaking, said this: “Look. Look at me well,

For I am Beatrice indeed. How do

You dare approach this mountain. Can you tell?

For man is happy here, yet here are you.”

My glance fell to the clear fount, but I met   80

Myself, and brought it back up to the grass

Because shame weighed my brow. So children get

The collywobbles when their mothers pass

Judgement through pity. She was silent. Then

As one, the angels sang this. “Lord, in you

I had hope.” But they all stopped singing when

They’d done the first nine verses, and come to

The bit about the feet and the large rooms.

Just as, along the back of Italy,

The snow piles up and solidly entombs   90

The tree trunks as the wind’s intensity

Increases from the northeast, but will melt

When, out of Africa, the south wind blows,

And dribble like a candle that has felt

The fire, just so was I, as, first, I froze

And had no tears or sighs before they sang

In concert with the music of the spheres,

But when I heard that the deep, melting pang

Of their song fit for supernatural ears

Was all for me, then, more than if they’d said   100

“Lady, why shame him so?” the ice around

My heart turned breath and water, and it spread

With anguish through my mouth and eyes, unbound

From my tight breast. Still standing motionless

On the same side of the car, she then addressed

The good souls in their pitying distress.

“You watch the world a long day without rest

So neither night nor sleep can hide a thing

That goes on or is ready to begin.

Therefore my answer’s made considering   110

Him weeping yonder more than you, so sin

And sorrow may be measured in like terms.

Not just by how the distant great wheels spin—

A movement which assigns and so confirms

An end to each seed as the stars dictate—

But by his lavish gift of the divine

Graces that rain from such a lofty state

Our sight can’t reach the vapours that consign

The blessing, so in early life this man

Had every gift and talent in the book   120

For the fulfilment of a marvellous plan.

But often, when the soul has that good look

Of strength, the ground grows poisonous and wild

With matching vigour, as if bad seed took

A deeper root: bright prospects are defiled.

My countenance sustained him for a space.

I brought him with me, with my youthful eyes,

The right way. But I reached the entry place

Of proper youth, where adolescence dies,

At twenty-five, and there he turned his face   130

Away from me, his wishes otherwise.

My state was raised from beauty of the flesh

To that of soul, and virtue so increased

In me that I became less dear, less fresh,

Less welcome, and his questing steps soon ceased

To come my way, and went another way

Less true, after false images of good

Which keep no promises: nor did it pay,

Through dreams and all the other means I could,

To call him back, for he would not pay heed.   140

He fell so low, all means to save him fell

Short of the task. Deciding I would need

To show him the Lost People down in Hell,

I visited the threshold of the pit

And heaped with prayers the one that brought him here,

And every prayer in tears. No help for it:

God’s high decrees would crack and hold no fear

If Lethe could be passed without a writ

Of penitence, and its dear sweet taste kept

Delicious in the mouth, with no tears wept.”   150

CANTO 31

“You that are on the sacred stream’s far side,”

She said again, turning to me the tip

Of her speech whose mere edge had hurt my pride

Sharply enough, “speak now. Unlock your lip.

The accusation needs, if this be true,

Confession joined to it.” My wits were so

Confused that what my voice set out to do

Began, but past my lips it could not go.

She let up just a little, then she said

“What are you thinking of? Pray answer me,   10

For those sad memories are not yet dead,

Slain in you by the stream.” Uncertainty

Mixed with unbridled fear drove forth a “yes”

From my mouth that to hear you had to see.

Just as a crossbow, wound with too much stress

Breaks, when it shoots, both in the bow and cord,

And sends the shaft with less force to the mark,

So, broken by that heavy charge, I poured

Forth tears and sighs, and my trapped voice went dark,

At which she said “In the desires you had   20

For me which led you in the love of good

Beyond which nothing that can make us glad

Is to be longed for, what could have withstood

Your hopes of progress? What chain or cross-ditch?

And what attractions and advantages

Seemed prominent in other things, by which

They so diverted your allegiances?”

Heaving a bitter sigh, I strained my voice

To answer, and my lips just managed this:

“As soon as your face vanished, all my choice   30

Was for the present day and its false bliss.”

And she: “Had you kept silent, or withdrawn

What you confessed, your fault would still be plain,

Known to the judge of everybody born.

But when a man’s own cheek bathes in the rain

Of shame for his own sin, then in our court

The wheel turns back against the sword’s edge. Yet,

In order that you bear the shameful thought

Of how you wandered, and thus duly get

More strength when you, in other times, are brought   40

Within the range of sirens, pray forget

The tears and listen. Hear of the straight way

My buried flesh would have consigned you to.

Never did art or nature, night or day,

Present such loveliness of form to you,

As that which harboured me, and it is gone—

Crumbled to dust, and if thus, by my death,

The highest beauty, as you’ve journeyed on,

Has failed you, then what was there, drawing breath,

That could have drawn you to it by desire?   50

Truly you should have, when the first shaft struck

Of lying things, trailed me as I went higher

Since I deceived no more. No girl with luck

Of looks, or other vanities of brief

And little worth, should ever have weighed down

Your wing to take more hits, and all the grief

That goes with them. New chicks have the renown

Of waiting as the shots fly, two, three, four.

The same is not true for the full-fledged bird,

Not when he sees the deadly net spread, or   60

The arrows climb.” Just as, without a word,

A shamed child stands with eyes fixed on the ground,

Acknowledging its fault while listening

Repentant, I stood there and made no sound.

She said: “Since hearing sets you sorrowing.

Lift up your beard and get your grief by eye.”

The wind from our land, or from where the king

Iarbas rules in Africa, may try

To rip the oak out but it’s no tough thing

Compared to my resistance when I raised   70

My glance at her command, since by “your beard”

She meant a face still young and thus amazed

By its new hair, and venom to be feared

Was in her argument. And when my sight

Was lifted, it saw how those angels paused

In scattering their flowers with delight.

My eyes, whose lack of confidence she caused,

Saw Beatrice turn towards the beast whose one

Person is in two natures. Veiled beyond

The stream, to me she seemed to have outdone   80

Her former self, when still she knew the bond

Of life with mortals, and surpassed them all.

The stinging nettle of remorse was such

That out of everything I could recall

That which most bent me to its love was much

More hated now. Self-knowledge bit my heart,

And down I fell, and what I then became

She knows who caused it. When I was in part

Restored to sense, Matilda, that self-same

Lady I’d found alone, now watched me float   90

While she said “Hold me, hold me.” In the stream

I was immersed as far up as my throat,

And she drew me behind her. Like a dream

Of lightness, lighter than the little boat

Whose name recalls the shuttle of the loom,

She passed across the water. We drew near

The blessèd further shore, where I heard bloom

“Purge me,” a song so clearly sweet to hear,

I can’t recall it, far less put in ink.

The lady spread her arms, then clasped my brow   100

And pushed me under, where I had to drink

The water. The she pulled me out somehow

And led me, bathed, into the circling dance

Of those four fair ones, and each with her arm

Embraced me, and they sang “By law, not chance,

Here we are nymphs with forms of earthly charm,

But in the sky we’re stars. When Beatrice

Descended to the world, we were ordained

Well in advance to be her handmaids. This

Is still our function. So far, you have gained   110

The sight of her but not yet seen her eyes.

Within their happy light three virtues shine.

Beside their radiant depth our dazzle dies,

Because their theological design

Sees more, and you will too, with all disguise

Laid open by your sharpened glance.” They thus

Began to sing, and brought me to the breast

Of their great beast, when Beatrice turned to us

And they continued: “See you don’t arrest

Your gaze. The holy emeralds are displayed   120

By us for you to see: gems by which love

Once loosed its darts.” And then my eyes obeyed

A thousand wishes heated far above

All earthly fire, heat holding them to hers

While here she watched the griffin. Like the sun

Caught in a glass, that creature, whose form stirs

Two beings so completely into one,

Blazed in her eyes, now with the one, and now

The other, nature. Reader, do you ask

Whether I marvelled at the sight of how   130

The thing still in itself fulfilled the task

Of altering its image? While my soul,

Full of astonishment and happiness,

Tasted that food which satisfies the whole

Of its own need, but makes the need no less

For those that eat, the others then advanced

And by their bearing proved their higher state,

As their angelic roundelay they danced.

“Turn, Beatrice, turn your glance, and contemplate

Your faithful one, who, for one glimpse of you,   140

Has come so far, and by your grace confer

On us a favour you alone may do.

Unveil your mouth to him: as your eyes were

One beauty, here’s another to reveal.”

Splendour of living light eternal! What

Poet has ever grown pale when leaves steal

The sunlight on Parnassus, or has not

Known when to check the draught from its deep well,

That he would fail to seem as if he’d got

Brain fever from the doomed attempt to tell   150

Of you, as you appeared there, heaven-borne,

With heaven and its harmonies to frame

Your radiance in a perpetual dawn,

Forever changing, ceaselessly the same—

Looking like that? And first, you said my name.

CANTO 32

Drowned in their object after ten years’ thirst

My eyes were so intent, all other sense

Was quelled in me, but while they were immersed

In that, they had only indifference

For all else. In that way, the holy smile

Had drawn them to it with the same old net,

But then the goddesses, in their own style,

Turned my attention left. “Too fixed, as yet,”

They said, referring to my gaze so keen

On revelation that it still was blind:   10

And blind I was, as if my eyes had been

Scorched by the sun. But when a lesser kind

Of object draw my sight—lesser, I mean,

Beside the greater from which I withdrew

Out of necessity—then what was seen

Through my dazed eye was soon adjusted to,

Being within my range, and so I saw

The glorious army, after a right wheel,

Returning with the sun and seven more

Flames in its face. As, rounding on its heel,   20

A squadron saves itself beneath its shields,

Turning its colours while the generals hold

Their main face full front as that squadron yields,

Just so the holy soldiers with their gold

And guiding banners came by in the van

And thus the pole brought round the car. Again

The ladies sought the wheels, where they began,

And so the holy griffin, now as then,

Shifted its blessed cargo, showing none

Of all its feathers shaken. Statius,   30

Matilda, the fair flower-gathering one,

And I, allowed the right wheel to lead us,

The inner wheel that made the smaller loop,

And as we travelled through the lofty wood

Left empty by her fault who was the dupe

Of that false serpent and thought his words good,

Angelic music timed our steps. The flight

Of just one arrow, three times multiplied,

We’d gone, perhaps, when Beatrice from her height

Came down, and from them all, from every side   40

I heard the murmur “Adam,” and then they

Encircled a bare tree, its flowers stripped

Like all its foliage; and its display

Of branches, with no green stuff clad or tipped,

Spread wider as it climbed up and away,

Looking like piled-up hair which Indians

Would marvel at for height, they who grow tall

Trees in their woods. “You’re blessed to have no plans,

Griffin, for plucking anything at all

With your beak from this tree with its sweet taste,   50

Lest your guts twist in torment.” Thus they cried,

From that ring round the tree where they were placed,

And the animal twice-born said “There inside

The seed is kept safe of all righteousness.”

He turned, then, to the shaft he’d pulled, and drew

The car close to the foot of that leafless,

Seemingly widowed, trunk, and tied it to

The tree with just one branch of that same tree.

As our plants, when the mighty light that falls

On them has joined the second sign of three   60

(The Carp, the Ram, the Bull) for what Earth calls

The spring, begin to swell in panoply,

Their colours all renewed, before the sun

Moves on to the next stars to yoke its steeds,

Just so I saw renewal had begun

For this bare tree, whose mere description needs

The tint of Christ’s blood, less deep than the rose

But deeper than the violet. The hymn

The company sang then, nobody knows

Down here, nor did I have even a dim   70

Idea of what it meant when I was there—

I only knew that hearing what they sang

Right through was simply more than I could bear.

The eyes of Argos, without pity’s pang,

By being told of Syrinx, went to sleep:

The eyes whose long watch over Io cost

So much. If by my writing I could keep

To that same standard, nothing need be lost:

As painters paint a model, I could tell

How slumber overcame me, but let that   80

Be done by one who wants to do it well.

I pass to when I woke up, startled at

A brightness breaking through the sleepy veil,

And heard the call: “What are you doing? Rise!”

As when their master, Jesus, made them scale

Tabor, the three apostles filled their eyes

With His transfiguration and a glance

At blossoms of the apple tree that makes

The angels crave its fruit and drives the dance

Of Heaven’s perpetual marriage feast—it takes   90

Only a glimpse to leave the viewer stunned—

And Peter, John and James fell to the ground

In sleep, but Jesus, from his fund

Of rousing words found those to bring them round,

And they awoke to find their school was short

Of Moses and Elias, and the bright

Light of Christ’s robe was no more what they’d thought

Had been a transcendental, blinding white,

So I came to, and there I saw again,

Standing above, she that before had been   100

My guide, Matilda. She had helped me when

I stepped along the river. “Have you seen

Beatrice? Where is she?” I said, all in doubt.

And she: “Look there beneath that new-grown green.

She’s seated on the tree’s root, hedged about

With just the seven virtues. All the rest

Followed the griffin upward, with a song

Sweeter and deeper yet.” If she addressed

Me longer, I don’t know—I could be wrong,

Perhaps she did—but now the one was here   110

Before me who had turned my cares to calm,

And there on the bare ground she sat, so near,

Left there to keep the chariot from harm

Where that two-natured beast put it to stand.

The seven nymphs were strung into a ring

That formed her cloister. Each held in one hand

A candelabrum never fluttering

In north wind or in south, as in our land

It would. “Here you will be a little while

A forester, and citizen always   120

Of that high Rome in which Christ has the style

Of Roman. The world falls on evil days,

But for the good in it, look closely now,

And what you see, write down when you return

Yonder.” Thus Beatrice: and I, whose bow

At her command had nothing left to learn

Of the submissive, gave my eyes and mind

As she wished. Never fire came from dense cloud

Downward so swiftly from where lie confined

The vapours in the high air, than the proud   130

Eagle of Jove tore down through the fresh leaves

And flowers, and not just them. It stripped the bark.

It struck the car which, as a ship that heaves

Before the storm, reeled to the leeward mark.

Then to the windward, cast there by the waves.

And then I saw a fox jump at the car:

A starved fox, kept alive by robbing graves.

My lady mocked its foulness, and as far

As fleshless bones allowed, it turned and ran.

And then the eagle, from its former place,   140

Dived in again and rapidly began

To feather the car’s insides from the base

On upwards with its plumage, and a cry

As from a grieving heart I heard descend

From heaven: “Little boat, you’re weighed down by

Such ill.” And I saw something rend

The earth between the wheels. A dragon reared

Upward and drove its tail through the car’s floor,

And as a wasp takes back the sting it speared

Into the flesh, I saw the thing withdraw   150

Its evil tail, and wander off, and what

Was left was decked again, as fertile soil

With dog-grass, by the plumage, which was not

Perhaps intended solely to despoil,

But offered with a pure and gracious heart:

And both wheels and the shaft were cloaked with it

In less time than a sigh keeps lips apart,

And thus transformed, the frame grew heads to fit

Its holy structure. Three grew on the shaft,

One at each corner, and the three were horned   160

Like oxen, and the two fore and two aft

Had one horn from the forehead each. Be warned,

For such a monster never has been seen.

But here it was, a mountain fort. Secure,

An ungirt harlot with brows arched to mean

Sheer boldness sat there, all set to endure

As property, it seemed, to him that loomed

Behind her: for a giant leaned to kiss

Her lips, and she reached up, and they assumed

Their kissing pose again, and then did this   170

Again and then again. But then she turned

Her wanton eyes on me, and that great beast,

That savage lover, when he looked and learned

That she had done so, switched from his love feast

To beating her from head to foot, and then,

Still occupied with his colossal rage

And deep suspicion, let her go again

Enough to drag her, in his wild rampage,

Away until the wood obscured my view

Of harlot and strange brute, but still I could   180

Tell what these symbols were referring to:

For there depicted was the foul embrace

Of France and Holy Church, the latter gone

To lewd seed in the reign of Boniface,

And then, with Clement, gone to Avignon—

The car, that Christ the Griffin had left tied

To Empire’s tree, beset from every side.

CANTO 33

“The heathen come to their inheritance,

O God,” the ladies sang. Now three, now four,

Wept and responded, singing, in a trance

Of bitter grief, a sweet psalm to deplore

What they had seen, and Beatrice, sighing, heard

Their melody—and Mary at the cross

Looked no more sad—but when space for a word

From her was left in that long song of loss

From the other virgins, she rose on her feet

Glowing like fire: “A little while you will   10

Not see me, sisters, and then we will meet.”

Echoing Christ in sight of his last hill,

She sent those seven forward, and she sent

Me with one gesture to a rearward place

With Statius and Matilda. So she went

Onward, and had not yet reached her tenth pace

When on my eyes her striking eyes were bent,

And with a tranquil air she said “Step out

More quickly, so that if I speak with you

You’ll sooner know what I am on about.”   20

And when I walked, as I was bound to do,

Abreast of her, she said “If you’re in doubt

Why don’t you question me? For I am here.”

As one who finds his voice locked in his lips

Before someone that they too much revere,

So did I speak, tongue like a foot that trips.

“My lady, you must know, you know, my need

And what, and what will meet it.” And she said

“From fear and shame forthwith I’d have you freed,

That you no longer seem to speak in dread   30

Of dreams. The carriage that the serpent wrecked

Was, and is not; but let who has the blame

Know that God’s vengeance with its sure effect

In time will come, and things won’t be the same

Always for that lone eagle without heir

That left its feathers so the car became

First beast, then slave, the rage and the despair.

I see and say it: that the time is nigh

When constellations free from all restraint

And contradiction will appear on high   40

To give these numbers—and they are not faint,

I see them vividly in my mind’s eye—

Five hundred, ten and five. These figures mean

A duke, one sent from God, to slay that thief,

That woman, and the giant whose obscene

Embrace corrupts her in their pact of grief,

And my dark tale perhaps persuades you less

Because, like that of Themis and the Sphinx,

Its cryptograms have left you powerless

To follow, for the fogged mind never thinks   50

Until the facts come in, but so they will

As they did for the Naiads, with no loss

Of flocks and corn through that wolf sent to till

The fields of Thebes with fear, and plough the dross.

Face truth, wrapped in a puzzle. Note it well,

And teach the words I say to those who live

The life which is a race to death. You’ll tell

Your tale in writing? Make sure that you give

Unhidden, all the details of the tree,

Which here has been twice robbed. Say what you’ve seen,   60

And say whoever commits larceny

Against it, or in any way has been

Violent towards it, promotes Blasphemy

Of Act against God, who for His sole use

First made it holy; and for just one taste,

The first soul, Adam, paid for his abuse

With life—almost a thousand years—laid waste,

And then four thousand more in death, until

The crime’s avenger died—to expiate

That mortal hunger, though it lingers still.   70

Truly your wits are drowsy and sleep late

If they don’t realise that for some due cause

The tree is tall and at the top grows great—

Reversed, that is. And if, without a pause,

The flow through your mind of vain thought and fad

Had been less like that local source of lime,

Our little river Elsa, and you had

Not dipped your poor brains in them every time

Like Pyramus in mulberry, there’d be none

Of your strange blindness to the moral right   80

Of this tree to require submission—one

Of scripture’s four main meanings—and indict

The eating of its fruit. And this is done

By God to show how gaining righteousness—

And here the principle stands in plain sight

In all its ramified expansiveness—

Begins with the forbidden. But since you

Are turned, I see, in your poor brain, to stone,

And, being petrified, are darkened too,

So that my speech strikes light from every tone   90

To dazzle you, this also you should do:

Bear what I say away within your mind,

In pictures if not words, as they that bring

The staff back as a sure proof, when they wind

The palm around it, that this is a thing

That saw the Holy Land.” And I: “Just as

The seal transforms the wax, so I am struck

By you; and what you said, my brain now has

Stamped into it; but still I’m out of luck,

Because your words are far above my head,   100

Longed-for but out of sight. The more I strive

The more I lose them. Why is this?” She said:

“Just so you’ll know, your writing friends who thrive

On worldly knowledge can’t, by what they preach,

Follow my words. Your path has been as far

From God’s as any mortal thought can reach—

Paths far apart as Earth and Heaven are.”

To this I said “I’ve no remembrance

That I from you was even once estranged.

My conscience is at ease.” A smiling glance   110

From her cloaked this rebuke: “You haven’t changed.

You can’t recall because you can’t recall

You drank today from Lethe, and if smoke

Means fire, then this forgetfulness is all

Your fault from that day your attention broke

Away from me and found some cause to fall

Elsewhere. But I will make my words as plain

From now on as your rude wits may require

To take them in without excessive pain.”

More splendid and slow-stepping, the sun’s fire   120

Held the meridian which shifts to match

The standpoint of the viewer. It was noon.

Just like a forward scout, should something catch

His eye, and he adjudge it not too soon

To turn and warn, the seven ladies paused

At the edge of a deep shade as might be cast

By mountains on cold streams and partly caused

By green leaves and black boughs. As they held fast,

I seemed to see, before them, from one source,

The Tigris and Euphrates spring, and yet   130

Like friends that part, each took a separate course,

Slowly but surely. “How, when they are met

Right at the start,” I asked, “are these two streams

Parted like self from self? Light of the Race

Of Humans, Glory of Us All, this seems

Too strange for thought.” And Beatrice turned her face,

Saying “Matilda is the one to ask.”

And that fair lady said, as if she sought

To shake off blame, “But I fulfilled this task

Before. Of this I gave him full report,   140

And other things as well, and I am sure

That Lethe’s waters still left what I taught

Intact.” And Beatrice said “Perhaps there’s more,

A greater care, which often robs the wits

Of memory, turning recollection dim.

But see Eunoe, where it flows, with its

Capacity to bring things back. Take him

To bathe in that, and do what you do best:

Revive his weakened faculty.” And then

Matilda, at her mistress’s behest—   150

With no excuses, but submission when

The moment came to be obedient

In will, having received the certain sign

Of someone else’s will and what it meant—

With courtesy, her hand enfolding mine,

Said “Come with him” to Statius. And no,

I lack the space to write the smallest part,

Reader, of what I ought to sing. For so

Sweet was that draught that never would my heart

Have drunk its fill. But all the sheets prepared   160

For this, my second canticle, are filled,

And from the curb of art I am not spared

To take things further. Through the waters spilled

By that spring, I was remade. Forth I fared,

A new plant with new leaves in a new time.

The stars were there, and I was set to climb.

BOOK

III

HEAVEN

CANTO 1

He moves all things. His glory penetrates

The universe, and here it shines the more

And there the less, and of these various states

The one where I was gets more light. I saw,

There in the Empyrean, things which he

Who comes back down from it has not the strength

Or knowledge to record, for memory

Can’t follow intellect through the same length

Of journey, as it goes deep to come near

What it desires. But all I could retain   10

As treasure in my mind will now appear

In this song. What’s imprinted in my brain

Of the Holy Kingdom will be written here,

Apollo, with your help. For this last burst

Of my long labour, make of me the flask

Of your power, which you always, from the first,

Required, from all who took on such a task,

Before you granted the loved laurel. One

Peak of Parnassus has sufficed thus far—

The Muses my sole help to get things done—   20

But now I need you, too, for now we are

On the threshold of the last arena. Come

Into my breast and breathe there as when you

Flayed Marsyas the fool when he was dumb

Enough to challenge you. If you could do

Enough for me so I might, Power Divine,

Show forth the shadow of the paradise

I have in mind, you’ll see me walk the line

To your elected tree, take the device

Of leaves my theme and you have helped me earn,   30

And put it on. So seldom has that crown

Been made for Caesar’s or a poet’s turn

At triumph, that the bough with the renown

Of Daphne surely gives Apollo joy

When anybody wants it. A great flame

Follows a little spark. Prayers may employ,

After my time, great words, because that same

Peak of Apollo, Cyrrha, meets the plea

Of poets’ wishes. The spring equinox

Is just one of the entrances we see   40

The sun come in at, but this one unlocks

A better course. Four circles join with three

Slant crosses, and the stars and tempers match

To stamp the world’s wax in the fruitful style

Of the world’s lantern. It undid the latch

And entered very near that point, so while

The morning happened there and evening here,

That hemisphere was white and this was dark,

And Beatrice turned left, and looked. For fear

Of blindness, never eagle risked that stark   50

Exposure of the eye to the full sun

As she did then; and, as the second ray,

The one reflected, leaves the primary one

At that point where they meet and climbs away

Just as a turning pilgrim might have done,

So from her action mine was made, infused

From her eyes into mine by how I thought,

And, so unlike the way our eyes are used

In mortal life, my glance, when it was caught,

Was held, fixed on the sun. Much is allowed   60

In that place, to our powers, which here is not,

By virtue of the fact that there, unbowed,

Man lived before he fell, and then forgot

What once his senses knew. I had not gazed

Long at that light, yet had gazed long enough

To see the cataract of sparks that blazed

Like iron that the fire makes boiling stuff,

When suddenly it seemed the day was joined

By day, as if He who could will it so

Had gestured, and a second sun was coined   70

To deck the sky. While upward from below

The eyes of Beatrice were fixed solely on

The eternal wheels, I had raised mine to her

Now that from my high object they were gone,

And at her aspect things weren’t what they were

Within me, as when Glaucus ate the herb

That had revived the fish, and he assumed

A sea god’s form. To pass beyond the curb

Of mere humanity is a step doomed

Not to be put in words: let it suffice   80

That the example should be put to him

Graced with that history. Not in a trice

Was man first formed. Dust made his every limb,

But it was breath that made the living soul.

Love, it was your breath. Were I just that part

Of me that you made last, and not the whole,

Love, heaven-ruling, you would know. Your heart

Of light raised me. Now your eternal wheel—

Constructed and set spinning by desire—

Held me intent by what it made me feel,   90

Its harmony. Your voices form a choir

In tune, and spread among the spheres. The new

Great sound and the great light soon kindled such

Keenness of longing as I never knew

Before, to seek the cause. To reach and touch

And calm the turmoil in my mind, she who

Saw me as I did, spoke before I could

Start asking. “Your false fancies make you dense.

Thus blinded, you cannot see as you would

Without them. You are not on earth. Your sense   100

Misleads you. Lightning, flying from its sphere

Between the earth and moon, can’t run as fast

As you regain your place, for you are near

To Heaven, which is your true land at last.”

With these brief words she smiled at me, my doubt

Might well have been dispelled, but soon I was

In yet another question swathed about,

And said “I was content just then, because

Freed from a wonder, but I wonder now

That I, a solid body, may ascend   110

Through realms of fire and thin air. Tell me how.”

She sighed with pity as if moved to bend

Her eyes on me just as a mother turns,

To her delirious child, a look that rues

The fate of all mankind, which never learns,

And said “All things that are, contain and use

Order among themselves. The universe,

Therefore, in structure, is to God alike

And in this primal part it must disburse—

While higher creatures watch it sort and strike—   120

That stamp of excellence, which never dies:

The very end for which the system’s made.

And in this order, all things exercise

Their nature, to express their place and grade

Nearer the sun or else, contrariwise,

Far off from it. They move to different ports

Across the sea of being, each with its

Own instinct. Entities of different sorts

Are all borne on, and one of them transmits

Fire to the moon—pale fire for mortal things.   130

And this one binds and unifies the earth.

Not just for creatures with fur, scales or wings

And no brain, the bow shoots, but those whose birth

Blessed them with force and intellect. The light

Of providence that regulates all this

Soothes with its glow the first step to the height,

Inside which the quick spinning emphasis

Of the First Impulse reaches its great speed,

And that way now, appointed to that place

We’re sent by the bowstring, as if its need   140

Is to attain the mark of joy and grace.

It’s true that often, as a shape does not

Accord with art’s intention, for a lack

Of workability in what it’s got

For substance, so sometimes the track

Of creatures fit to follow a good course

Can find their upward impulse turned aside,

As we might see a fire endowed with force

To climb, fall from the clouds, a shot gone wide,

And back to earth. False pleasure takes the blame.   150

If I am right, I vow that your ascent

Unfailingly to Heaven has the same

Reason within it for astonishment

As when the average mountain spills a stream

Falling from head to foot. You’d have more cause

For wonder if, without a mote or beam

Of hindrance, you had stayed below, all laws

Defied, as if a living flame might seem

To stay still. You could truly marvel, then.”

She turned her face up to the sky again.   160

CANTO 2

You sailors in your little boats that trail

My singing ship because so keen to hear,

By now it might be time for you to sail

Back till you see your shoreline reappear,

For here the sea is deep, and if you lose

My leading light just once, then steering clear

Might bring bewilderment. So you must choose—

Be warned, this sea was never sailed before.

Minerva breathes, Apollo steers, the nine

Muses will navigate me by the store   10

Of stars. You few that took this course of mine

In early times, to reach for angels’ bread

By which men live but can’t be satisfied

Down here, you might indeed have forged ahead

In your craft as the salt depths moved aside,

Ploughing the furrow till the waves again

Healed smooth. The glory-hungry Argonauts

Who crossed to Colchis were not so stunned when

They saw their Jason yoke the bulls. Your thoughts

Will make theirs seem unruffled. The innate   20

And everlasting thirst bore us away,

The thirst for Heaven in God’s form. In spate

We sped, almost as fast as one might say

The star-wheel turned, while Beatrice gazed on high,

And I on her, and in the time a bolt

That strikes a target takes to load and fly,

I now saw I had hurtled to a halt

When something marvellous drew my eyes from her

To it. From her, my thoughts could not be hid.

She turned the fairest eyes that ever were   30

To me, and said this, glad at what she did:

“To God, who brings us here to the first star,

The moon, direct your thanks.” It seemed to me

A cloud now covered us, if clouds there are

That can be dense yet still shine, solidly

Consistent, smooth, like star-struck diamonds.

And this eternal pearl now took us in,

As water will retain its seamless bonds

Pierced by a ray of light. How to begin?

If I were body (and down here we can’t   40

Believe a body might be drawn into

A body, or we would be what we aren’t)

This should accentuate our wish anew

Of climbing up to see that essence where

Our nature joins to God. There will be seen

All that we hold by faith. It will be there,

Not demonstrated, but, for what we mean

By knowing, known: known in itself. Which is

The primal truth that men believe. And I:

“My lady, how the credit is all His   50

That from the mortal world I reach the sky,

I say from my devoted, thankful heart.

But tell me why this body should be scarred

By dark marks, which from Earth are seen as part

Of Cain’s crown, made from thorns long, sharp and hard?”

She smiled awhile, then said “If judgement errs

In mortals, when the key of sense won’t fit

The lock, be not amazed if it occurs,

From now on, that your reason’s winged remit

Falls short of what the senses apprehend.   60

Just keep the shafts of wonder out of it.

Let them fly past, there’s nothing to defend.

All you need do is tell me what you think.”

And I: “Presumably that which might seem

Up here to be divine means sunrays sink

Into the rare. But from the dense they gleam

Reflected.” She: “Assuredly you’ll find

That your belief is deep in error drowned.

If only you admit into your mind

The following objections, which are sound.   70

The eighth sphere shows us many different lights:

The fixed stars, which, if they are judged by size,

Or quality, appear as different sights.

If all those, like the moon, should harmonise

Their luminosity from dense or sparse

Collections of material, then each

Would have one virtue, in a single class

Distributed, as qualities might reach

From more to less through equal on the scale.

But that’s absurd, for different virtues form   80

From principles, and your thought would entail

That only one of them provides the norm.

Again, if rarity should be the source

Of that obscurity you ask about,

The moon would either have, in parts, a course

Of emptiness right through it, or, without

Much difference from the way that lean and fat

Are portioned in a body, it would stack

The pages, in its volume, lying flat

One on the other: thin white and thick black.   90

But in the first case, at the sun’s eclipse

We’d see the light shine through the moon, as through

Rare stuff. The second case lives on the lips

For little longer, since in this way, too,

Your view is false. If rarity falls short

Of going right through, there must be a mark

Where density ensures the ray is caught

And thrown back, giving light instead of dark,

Just as a colour is sent back through glass

With hidden lead behind. You might contend   100

Those rays show dimmer when they have to pass

Up from the depths than those which must descend

Less deeply to encounter a hard place—

Experiment, however, will remove

Such an objection, and from your false case

Release you: for experiment must prove

Always to be the spring that feeds the streams

Of your art. Take three mirrors. First you set

Two the same distance from you, so it seems

A window lies between them where is met   110

The third one by your eyes from where it stands

Yet further off. Then have, behind your back,

A lamp set up by which those two demands

For light are satisfied. See how the track

Rebounds of each beam. Though the one that comes

The furthest may look smaller, you will see

It shines with equal brightness. What benumbs

Your mind, now finally of error free,

Is that the truth has not yet taken hold.

Think of the snow when smitten with warm rays,   120

Bare of its former colour and its cold:

I want to fill your bare mind with a blaze

Of living light that sparkles in your eyes.

Within the heaven of divine peace spins

The Primum Mobile, whose virtue ties

Together all the being that begins

And ends within it. The next heaven, hung

With many lights, and called the Starry Sphere,

Assigns that being severally among

Different existences, so they appear   130

Many and various but are contained

Within its single virtue. Seven more

Heavens exist, and all of them ordained

To deal out separate qualities they share

Within, to suit their ends and good effect.

These organs and the universe proceed,

As you see, grade by grade, in due respect

Receiving from above all that they need

To operate below. Observe well how

I pass thus to the truth you seek, just so   140

You may know how to ford the river now

Alone. I give you grounds for where to go.

Now, then, your final step: the Holy Wheels.

Their motion, and their virtues, must derive—

As from the leaping sparks and ringing peals

Of constant hammering the smiths contrive

Their iron work—from Blessed Movers. These

Are the angelic orders, and the realm

Made fair by all those flaring entities

Is shaped by the profound mind at the helm,   150

And of that stamp becomes itself the seal:

And as the soul in your dust is diffused

Through different body parts each built to deal

With different faculties diversely used,

So the intelligence unfolds its hoard,

Throughout the star-field to be multiplied,

Which, wheeling always in its one accord,

From different virtues forms divine alloy

With any precious body it makes quick,

And with which, as in you, it will enjoy   160

Deep bonds, designed to strengthen as they stick.

So, by the joyous nature when it springs,

The mingled virtue shines through like the flash

In our eyes when we think of joyful things.

And therefore the whole range of flame to ash

Dividing light from light, comes otherwise

From how you thought. Not how dense or how rare,

But how glad are the angels, gives our eyes

Our vision of the dark and bright up there—

Proof that such excellence rules everywhere.”   170

CANTO 3

The sun which first had warmed my breast with love,

By proof and refutation had shown me

The truth’s fair face, and I raised—not above

The level needed if I wished to free

My mouth for speech—my head, just to confess

Myself corrected and assured. But then

A sight appeared that left me powerless,

Glued to it, so I couldn’t think again

Of what I had confessed: the words had fled.

It was as if through smooth, transparent glass,   10

Or else through clear, still water whose creek-bed

Is not so deep our faces fail to pass

Back up to us so faintly that a pearl

Set on a pallid brow is not more slow

To reach us from the image of a girl,

That I saw many faces, poised as though

Eager to speak. I then made a mistake

Like that which joined the man and spring, and lit

Tinder between them that brought love awake,

Except my error was the opposite:   20

Narcissus was more credulous than me.

I saw these faces and I took them for

Reflections, so I turned my eyes to see

Where they might really stand, and what I saw

Was nothing, so once more it came to be

That I looked straight into the brilliant light

Of my sweet guide, her holy eyes aglow

With her smile. She said “Do not doubt it right

That I smile at your childishness, for so

Reluctant is it still to set its foot   30

On truth, that it feels bound to turn you back

To emptiness. But these are real, all put

In this place for a failure, for their lack

Of loyalty to vows. So speak with them,

Hear and believe. A true light gives them peace,

But, simply by that function, must condemn

The peaceful ones to keep turned without cease

Their steps towards it.” I approached the shade

That most seemed keen to talk, and I said this,

Almost consumed by my will: “Spirit made   40

To know, in this eternal life of bliss,

The sweetness of its beams—a taste which must

Be tasted first before it is conceived—

It would be kind of you if you could just

Render my curiosity relieved

By telling me your name and of your fate.”

And she, with smiling eyes of eagerness:

“Our charity shuts no doors, bars no gate,

Against right Will, for our will can’t be less

Than His, who wills His whole court to be as   50

Himself. A virgin sister when I breathed,

I was—and you will find your memory has

A picture which, although now I am wreathed

With greater fairness, you will see is mine—

Piccarda Donati. I am put here

With all these other blessed ones, and in line

With their lot I, too, tarry in the sphere

Of smallest orbit and therefore least fast,

The slow sky of the moon. Our sentiments,

Which nothing sets ablaze save, first and last,   60

To please the Holy Ghost, find joy intense

In our conformity to His regime,

And this position which I occupy,

As low down on the scale as it might seem,

Is given us for failing to comply

Sufficiently in duty to our vows.”

And then I said to her: “Your wondrous face

That I see now, diversity endows

With inner light of an amazing grace

Divine beyond my knowledge, changing you   70

From what you were, but now there’s what you say

To help me recollect what I once knew.

Yet tell me: happy as you are to stay

In this sphere, do you not desire a post

Up higher, where you can see more, and feel

More loved yet?” With the others in that host

She smiled at this, and answered with such real

Gladness she seemed to burn in love’s first fire.

“Brother, our charity is calmed by will,

Willing just what we have, with no desire   80

For more. If we wished to be higher still,

Then our desire would fail to jibe with His

Will that appoints us here. Such, you will find,

Cannot hold in these circles, if it is

Necessity, clear to the thinking mind,

To be in charity, and if you well

Study its nature. No indeed, the gist

Itself of this blessed state is: we compel

Ourselves at all times wholly to exist

Within the will divine, so that our wills   90

Are thus themselves made one. Therefore our rank

From height to height throughout the realm instils

Pleasure in all of it, and so we thank

The King who wills us to His will. For in

His will is our peace. His will is the sea

Towards which all things move just to begin—

The souls it makes and all the progeny

Of Nature. For it is creative twice,

In both these ways.” She made it clear to me

That Heaven everywhere is paradise,   100

Although the Great Good’s favour does not rain

In one mode. As, when one food might suffice

Yet craving for another may remain,

We thank our stars and yet we are bereft—

As when that happens, so did I, with speech

And gesture, strive to hear the weft

And warp—the shuttle driven through to reach

Its goal—of what the vow was she had left

Neglected. “Perfect life and its reward,”

She said, “place in high Heaven great St. Clare,   110

Whose rule in your world binds with one accord

Those novices in robe and veil who swear

That until death they’ll always wake and sleep

With that Bridegroom who sanctions any vow

Made out of charity and aimed to keep

Him pleased. To follow her was why and how

I fled, a young girl, from the world, and wrapped

Her habit round me, dedicating all

My life to her chaste way. But I was trapped:

Men used to evil got in through the wall   120

Of good, and from the cloister I was torn—

And what my life was afterwards, God knows.

But see this other splendour here like dawn

Appearing to you on my right, who glows

With all the light of our sphere. She, too, was

A sister, and the same way lost her veil

And safety, but she never, just because

She’d seen the world triumph and custom fail,

Abjured the inward veil that soothed her heart.

This is the light of that great Constance, she   130

Who bore, when brought back from her life apart,

The third and last child with the pedigree

Of emperor, and the sire was that false start,

The second Swabian quick breeze to blow.”

She spoke thus, then began to sing the hymn

Ave Maria, and, still singing so,

Went down like something heavy growing dim

Into the depths. My sight went after her,

As far as it could plunge. Then it returned,

When it had lost her, back where my eyes were   140

Faced with the greater mark. And there she burned:

All I could see was Beatrice, nor could move

My gaze away, although it hurt my eyes

So much at first I feared that it might prove

Too hard to go on looking, or devise

Questions whose shyness she would not despise.

CANTO 4

Between two tempting dishes each way set

Apart, and parallel in their appeal,

A man could, before either of them met

His lips, perish from hunger, his next meal

Untouched. A lamb between two wolves might stand

In equal fear of both and what they crave.

A hound between doves, on the other hand,

More like the man, could die, however brave,

Torn by irresolution. Thus if I

Kept silent, by two equal doubts compelled,   10

I neither blame nor praise myself thereby.

It was necessity. My tongue was held,

But my desire was painted on my face:

My question, too, and far more warmly than

In plain words. Beatrice took Daniel’s place

When he guessed the bad dream and shrunk the span

Of Nebuchadnezzar’s wrath, which made that king

Cruelly unjust, and she said “I see well

How one desire leads to another thing,

Drawing you on, so that, without a spell   20

For breath, your keenness binds itself and you.

You reason thus: ‘If my right will prevails,

How is it something someone else might do

By violence can impede it so it fails

Even a little, the preferment due

To me by merit?’ And you are perplexed

That souls seem to return, as Plato taught,

Into the stars. These questions, mixed and vexed,

Press on your will. First, I shall treat the thought

Containing the most poison, which is that   30

Stemming from Plato, who wants different skies

For each grade of beatitude, and at

The threshold must be those who might not rise

To be exalted. Let that thought be gone.

Not even the first Seraph at God’s side,

Not Moses, Samuel, or whichever John

You choose, and no, not even heaven’s pride,

Mary herself, are in a different seat

Than this First Circle where these souls appear.

All heaven is this place. For all you’ll meet,   40

Eternity’s the same length, to the year.

They all make heaven fair, and life is sweet

For each, but since the far is always near,

The difference of their bliss is measured by

Only their distance from the breath divine

And everlasting, in a single sky.

These ones have shown themselves, not by design

Of sphere allotted to them, but to prove

That they are least exalted, last in line

To go up nearer. Seeming still, they move.   50

Here I must speak directly to your sense,

For only how you see and feel can seize

That which your intellect finds too immense

At first encounter. It’s by such degrees

Of teaching, that the Scriptures condescend

To your capacity. Thus the Supreme

Being is given hands and feet. The end

Is allegory, and a hidden theme

Is also served when Holy Church brings news

Of Michael decked out with a human face,   60

And Gabriel, and Raphael. The views

Put by Timaeus, pinning down the place

Of souls, are not reflected here, for what

He says he seems to think true: that the soul

Returns to its own star, from which it got—

When nature formed it as a separate whole—

Released. Perhaps, however, that was not

The true import of what his words express,

And there’s a meaning we might not despise.

His arrow flies with some truth, more or less,   70

If he means that their influence, in guise

Of honour or of blame, rejoins these wheels.

This principle, ill understood, misled

Almost the whole world, which in part still feels,

Falsely, the names of stars meant what they said

In the first instance: Mars and Mercury

And Jupiter as gods to be revered.

The other doubt that shakes your reverie

Is not so poisonous. You won’t be steered

Away from me and into heresy   80

By mischief of that kind. Our justice may

Appear unjust to mortals. That just proves

How faith, not wicked doubt, has final say

In the more mystifying ways God moves.

But since your understanding is well fit

To penetrate that truth, I shall content

Your need to know about the violence. It

May well be that there’s no thought of consent

By the victim to the violator, yet

These souls were not excused on that account:   90

For will, if it wills not, is still not set

Aside completely, but like fire will mount

Straight up again although a thousand times

Blown reeling sideways, and it therefore bends

As much or little, in the face of crimes,

As it condones them. So it all depends

On what these did next. And they might have fled

Back to the holy places, if their will

Had been unbroken. Stretched on his hot bed,

Lawrence remained determined to fulfil   100

His destiny; and, unmoved, the right hand

Of Mucius stayed in the fire. The same

Determination, you must understand,

Would surely have brought these back whence they came,

As soon as they were free. The path they’d been

Abducted from was there still. Still, such force

Of will is rare. But if the things I mean

Form part, from now on, of your mind’s resource,

Then your false reasoning is cancelled out

To trouble you no more, as it well might   110

Have done. But now, to turn your course about

If you were by yourself, another tight

And hard, exhausting place lies close ahead.

It’s near enough to be plain to your sight.

It’s set now in your mind, what I have said:

There can be no lies from a soul in bliss,

For it is near to primal truth always.

Piccarda might have seemed to counter this

When she said Constance, with her constant gaze

Forever on the veil, did not return   120

To where she might have worn it once again.

But, brother, many times, as you should learn,

It happens that, against the will of men,

Escape from danger means that something’s done

Which shouldn’t be. So Alcmaeon achieved

Revenge on her—although he was her son—

Who killed his father. He was twice bereaved,

But pitiless in piety at last.

Learn this, then, at this point. There is a blend

Of force and will where no offence is passed   130

Beyond excuse, though means lead to good end.

The absolute will knows no yielding law:

But, when conditional, will may give ground

Because it fears, if it resists, that more

Trouble will come. Piccarda, then, was sound:

She meant strict will by what she said before,

And I the other kind. Thus you have found

The truth two ways.” Such was the rippling flow,

Setting one wish and then the next at rest,

Of the holy stream that holds all we can know   140

Of truth, and from the fountain forth is blessed.

“Beloved of the First Love, you that so

Divinely speak,” I said, “you flood my soul

To make it always warm and more alive,

Not all of my affection, not the whole

Of what I say, no matter how I strive,

Will serve to match your grace to me with mine.

May He do that who sees, and can do, all.

I see well how, unless the truth divine

Enlightens it, our intellect must fall   150

Short of the truth, unsatisfied. That line

Once crossed beyond which human truth can range

To holy truth, the beast is in its lair.

Home gained, it rests, impervious to change:

And all of our desires were empty air

Without this. It means doubt is like a shoot

Springing from truth. It is a natural urge.

The questioning has nature at the root.

We’re pushed from height to height till we emerge

Up at the summit. It’s all nature’s plan,   160

And so I am invited and made bold

To ask you of another truth less than

Clear to me, lady. Let me now be told

If ever it can happen that a man

May make it up to you by doing good

For vows he has not kept.” She looked at me

With eyes so full of love my powers could

Do nothing to withstand the clarity

That sparkled there within. My vision shook.

I almost fainted, stunned by that one look.    170

CANTO 5

“If, in a flame of love beyond all seen

On Earth, I glow to you so that your eyes

Are conquered in their power, let that not mean

You marvel, for you have to realize

This comes when perfect vision apprehends

The good, and, knowing what it is, moves near.

I see now how the light that never ends

Shines in your mind: light which, seen to appear,

Alone and always kindles love. From this,

Come all things that beguile you: even though   10

From just a trace of it, and hit and miss

Your understanding of it, yet the glow

Shines through.” So saying, Beatrice began

The canto, and, like one who would not break

Her speech, she said “God’s greatest gift to man

In all the bounty He was moved to make

Throughout creation—the one gift the most

Close to his goodness and the one He calls

Most precious—is free will. Creatures that boast

Intelligence have this, but none that falls   20

Outside that category is endowed

With any. Now it will be clear to you,

In view of this, the worth of what is vowed,

If it be such that God does as you do:

That is, consent. For it is in the pact

Of God and man that the great treasure chest—

Free will, as I have said—by its own act

Becomes the sacrifice. What would be best

To offer for a vow that’s unfulfilled?

Nothing. Nothing you give in recompense   30

Will serve, for what you will is now ill-willed:

Good works with stolen gains would make more sense.

By now you are assured on the chief point,

But Holy Church can sometimes waive its laws

In this regard: which might seem out of joint

With what I’ve said is true. So you must pause

For thought, sit at the table for a while.

The tough food you have swallowed won’t stay down

Without help. Let your mind, in its best style,

Be open to my words and win renown   40

For holding on to them, since to have learned

Without retention can’t deserve the name

Of knowledge: the mere thought would be absurd.

Two things in close accord but not the same

Supply the essence of that sacrifice.

One is material, the thing you give

Or else give up. That’s the substantial price.

The other’s formal. How you vow to live,

The pact itself. This last can’t be annulled

Save by observing it. Regarding which   50

I spoke just now, with never a point dulled.

Just as the Hebrews had, without a hitch,

To make their offerings, though what those were

Could change, as you are no doubt well aware,

The formal part, to which I now refer,

I made clear when I told the tale back there

About the vow. That part indeed may be

Such that no fault, if matter is exchanged,

Need be incurred. But still, let no one free

His shoulders from a burden once arranged,   60

Unless, to back his choice, the silver key

Of priestly wisdom, and the golden one

That signifies priestly authority,

Have both been turned, to prove it may be done.

And every such exchange is reckoned vain

Unless the new load outweighs the one shed

By six to four at least, so that a gain

Of burden, not a loss, is there instead.

A vow, which tips all balances on Earth,

For value, can’t be matched by anything   70

At all, no matter what that thing is worth.

Therefore let humans take great care to bring

Their full attention to a vow, and not

Be frivolous. Nor should they be perverse

Like Jephthah, who pledged wildly, and forgot

That keeping faith might make a bad thing worse.

He said that he would offer, to be burned,

The first thing that emerged from his front door.

It was his daughter, and too late he learned

That saying ‘I did ill’ would have earned more   80

Credit with God. And Agamemnon, too,

Showed the same folly when, to sail for Troy

On a fair wind, he offered payment down:

His daughter Iphigenia. The joy

Went out of her fair face. To grieve for her

Is wise for all who’ve heard about that rite,

And simple. How could such a thing occur?

Christians, let not your attitude be light

To undertakings. Feathers in every wind

Ought not to be your model, nor will all   90

Waters restore clean skin when you have sinned.

Remember how, to save you from a fall,

You have the Testaments, both New and Old,

To guide you, and the Pastor of the Church.

Give not the Jew that’s with you in the fold

His opportunity. If you besmirch

Yourself with wicked greed at his cheap rates,

The pardoner is glad. You must be men,

Not stupid sheep. For ridicule awaits

The lamb that leaves its mother’s milk, and then,   100

Foolish and wanton, fights itself to suit

Its brainless pleasure.” Just so, Beatrice spoke

In these words that I write, and then turned, mute,

Yet more with longing than I can evoke,

To where the universe is brightest. Such

A falling wordless and a change of look

Silenced my eager mind, already much

Preoccupied with pages—a whole book—

Of extra questions. We sped like a shaft

That strikes the mark before the cord is still,   110

Into the second realm. As if she laughed

Aloud, I saw my lady’s fair face fill

With joy when entering the radiance

Of that next heaven, and the planet turn

The brighter for it, and the star enhance

Its aspect with a smile, though it could burn

More brightly only in this circumstance.

Imagine, then, what I became, when by

My nature I am so transmutable!

As in a fish pool that’s a calm, clear sky   120

To all those fish beneath, they form a school

Around what comes from outside, which they guess

To be new food, so now I saw at least

A thousand splendours make the distance less

Towards us, gathering around the feast.

From them I heard “How this one will augment

Our lives!” and as each eager soul came near

It seemed so full of happiness it sent

Bright flames out all around. If I stopped here,

Think, reader, how you’d crave a testament   130

More full. Then you will know how much desire

I had to hear from them about their state,

As soon as I could see them in their fire.

“You, born for good, for whom it is the fate,

Given by grace, to gaze on the great chairs

Of triumph in eternity although

Your war continues, each one of us bears

The light of charity that spreads its glow

Through all of Heaven. Thus, if you’re inclined

To be enlightened about us, then at   140

Your pleasure ask away. Just speak your mind.”

One of those pious spirits said all that,

Then Beatrice said this: “Speak, speak, you’ll find

Them trustworthy as gods.” I: “I see well

How you nest in your own light, which is drawn

From your eyes: for when you speak, I can tell

It must spring from your smile, an extra dawn

Adorning daylight. As for what you are,

However, I don’t know, nor why you rank

In this sphere, that another’s beams debar   150

From mortal sight, for Mercury is blank

Beside the blazing sun.” Thus I enquired

Of that effulgence which addressed me first:

A light that then became, as if inspired,

Far brighter than before. Like the sunburst

That comes when, all dense vapours burned away,

The sun conceals itself with excess light,

Just so the holy form put on more day

As if the day it had was merely night,

And hid in its own joy. What can I say?   160

Such eloquence can spring from hidden things.

But what it said next, my next canto sings.

CANTO 6

“When Constantine, two centuries before

My time, removed the eagle from the west

And sent it east, then never anymore,

For all those years, did its first place of rest

Rule all the world. The bird of God defied

The wind that brought Aeneas first to Rome

Through marriage with Lavinia. Flung wide

To Europe’s edge, it reigned in its new home,

Byzantium, two hundred years at least—

Close to the mountains where it first took flight   10

To travel with Aeneas from the east

Into the west. And there, in all its might,

Under the shadow of its sacred wings,

It held the world, and passed from hand to hand

That held it, till the one in charge of things

Was I, Justinian. In that far land

I reigned as Caesar. By the First Love’s will—

Which I could feel within—I trimmed the laws

Of all their folderol and overkill.

Before I set my effort to that cause,   20

I still believed the heresy that Christ

Had just one nature, which was all divine

And never human. That idea of Christ

I was content with, and I called it mine

Until Pope Agapetus spoke to me

Describing the true faith, which I believed,

As you yourself can see transparently

That any contradiction is achieved

Only between the true and the untrue.

As soon as I walked with the Church, it pleased   30

God in his grace to spur me to the new

High task, and by it I was wholly seized,

And my dear Belisarius obeyed

My orders to take arms, and he was blessed

By God’s right hand, and so much ground was made

In our name, that I took the sign to rest

From battle, and devote myself to peace.

Here ends, then, the brief answer to your first

Question, and yet its tenor begs increase

To my response, so you, so long immersed   40

In faction fights to counter or to claim

The holy standard, may see why they act

That way: how courage brought the banner fame

And reverence, all of which began, in fact,

When Pallas, fighting for Aeneas, gave

His life to found the city where it flew

And flies again, designed by God to wave

Above the Church if not the Empire. You

Well know the eagle stayed three hundred years

In Alba, till at last a fight took place   50

For its sole sake, when three from there crossed spears

With three from Rome. Both teams, matched face to face,

Had Trojan blood, but only one could win:

The one from Rome. Then, under seven kings,

The city saw its outward reach begin.

You know that too, and know of all the things

The eagle did. The rape of the Sabines,

Lucretia’s suicide, the neighbours cowed

In all the realms. Oneness, it meant and means:

The banner borne against the Gauls (allowed   60

By Brennus to get close) and borne against

Pyrrhus and other princes and communes—

A list that lasts forever once commenced.

All those proud Arabs brought from the sand dunes

Of Africa to cross the Alpine peaks

By Hannibal—the crags you fall from, Po—

The eagle brought them down, as history speaks.

Under that flag, such youths as Scipio

And Pompey had their triumphs. To that hill

Fiesole, where you were born, it proved   70

Bitter. Then, near the time when Heaven’s will

Decreed that all the world at once be moved

To match its state of peace, the holy sign

Was grasped by Caesar, at behest of Rome,

And so the earthly realms were brought in line

With Heaven. Where the wild Gauls had their home

Across the mountains, where the rivers run

In all the valleys of the Rhone from Var

To Rhine, the fighting tribes bowed, every one,

And then the banner, having come so far,   80

Turned back with him across the Rubicon—

A flight beyond what tongue or pen can tell—

And then it went where Pompey had moved on.

To Spain it wheeled the host, and then, as well,

Durazzo, and Pharsalia. Pompey gone

To Egypt, his last grief came to a head.

The head was his. Caesar, not knowing this,

Continued his pursuit, and so was led

To where Troy once had been. Nor did he miss

The sight of Hector’s tomb. And then he came   90

To Egypt, whereupon the banner shook

With rage at Ptolemy, then fell in flame

On Mauretania, where Caesar took

The throne of Juba. Once more westward then

The banner flew, to Spain, where Caesar stilled

The trumpets of the last of Pompey’s men.

It dipped in Rome when Caesar’s blood was spilled.

With his successor the flag flew again,

And that inheritor ensured by deed

Brutus and Cassius would howl in hell,   100

And Cleopatra, too, that broken reed,

Still weeps. She fled before the flag as well,

And from the viper took, with dreadful speed,

Her death. On with Augustus, the flag’s flight

Reached the Red Sea. With him it gave the world

Such peace the shrine of Janus was locked tight

While that great hand held high the cloth unfurled.

But everything the flag that moves my speech

Had done till that time and had yet to do—

Though all the mortal world its rule could reach—   110

Seems small and dim and its achievements few

Compared with what it did when held on high

By the third Caesar. To Tiberius

The glory went—when seen with a clear eye

And right mind, this truth is revealed to us—

Of bringing fit revenge on Adam’s sin

By crucifying Christ. Pilate’s assent

To that death proved divinity was in

The emperor’s hand, and Living Justice meant

The eagle. (By this justice I, too, am   120

Inspired.) Now be amazed at what I say:

For, next, with Titus, it ran on to damn

And blast Jerusalem, all in the way

Of proper punishment for that first act

Of vengeance. After that, the Lombard tooth

Bit Holy Church. Charlemagne counter-attacked

Under the eagle’s wings, and fought for truth

And saved her life. Now you can judge, in fact,

Those faction-men that I before accused

Of their offences, cause of all your ills:   130

For by the Guelphs, the fleur-de-lis is used

Against the eagle flag, which yet fulfils

The role of banner for the Ghibellines—

By which group is the banner more abused?

So let the latter faction, by all means,

But with another flag, keep up their arts,

For he who splits the banner so it leans

Two ways, splays its intentions in two parts:

Eternal justice, and the shifting aims

Of politics. This new Charles of Anjou,   140

The weak one, ought to moderate his claims,

And not imagine he can really do

Much to the talons that have dragged the skins

Off many bigger lions than him. The sons

Weep often for the way a fault begins

With their own fathers, and so folly runs

In families. Let young Charles not think the Lord

Will change his eagle-bearing coat of arms

For sprays of lilies, nor that a toy sword

And putty shield will work like lucky charms.   150

Now to your second question I afford

An answer. They adorn this little star,

Good spirits who did what they did to earn

An honoured form. And when it goes so far,

The will for fame, that it can even turn

Honour to glory’s ends, then it must mount

More than the rays of true love, which lose force

Accordingly. But when we make the count

Of our reward and our desert, of course,

Part of our joy is in the way we find   160

It neither less nor more. With even hand

The Living Justice sweetens to the mind

His judgement just because we understand

That justice has been done, and true desire

Can never be warped to evil. Thus we see,

As different voices join in the sweet choir,

So different rankings make sweet harmony

Among these starry wheels. Within this pearl

There also shines the light of Romeo,

Who came to Provence as the merest churl   170

To serve Count Raymond Berenger, and so

Successful was his management, his liege

Tripled in wealth and saw four daughters wed,

Each as a queen. But envy soon laid siege

To Romeo’s position. Things were said

By crafty tongues that flattered the Count’s ear,

And foolishly he listened to their lies.

He asked his faithful servant to appear

With all the bills, to judge, with clouded eyes,

How every penny had been spent. The end   180

Had come for one who could have done no more

To make his lord rich, and thought him a friend.

Thus from the court he came to, young and poor,

The faithful Romeo left poor and old,

And if you knew the mighty heart he had,

Begging his bread by scraps, out in the cold,

You’d think him something more than merely sad—

And call his smug foes stupid to be glad.”

CANTO 7

“Hosanna, holy God of hosts, who makes

Yet more resplendent with his brightness all

The happy fires that burn here for our sakes,

Lighting this realm in every hallowed hall!”

Singing these Latin-Hebrew notes, he spun,

That spirit upon whom a double light

Of earth and heaven joined to flame as one,

And I could see him sing, and heard the sight,

As he and all the rest moved in the dance,

And like the flight of quickest sparks were veiled   10

By sudden distance. I could not advance

Without doubt, for inside myself I quailed,

And told myself “Tell her, for she knows how

To slake my thirst with sweet drops.” But that awe

Which at her name unmans me even now

So that mere fragments of it start a war

In my soul (be, eat, at, ice) made me bow

Like one who falls asleep. She didn’t leave

Me long like that, but shone a smile on me

To make a man rejoice, instead of grieve,   20

If he were in the fire. “You doubt, I see,”

She said. “Your show of silence can’t deceive

My judgement, which is not subject to fault.

The question of Jerusalem has set

You thinking how a vengeful armed assault

Upon just vengeance can itself have met

Standards of justice. Let me free your mind

Right now. And listen, for my words contain

Great doctrine. Adam never sought to find

The limit to his will. It knew no rein,   30

Not even for his good. So, never born,

He cursed himself, and all his heritage.

Always conceived in sin, mankind lay torn

With sickness and in error from one age

Into the next, until God’s Word was pleased

To come down and unite what had been split:

Man’s nature, that He’d made, and Him. He seized

The first, and, to the second, added it

By one sole act of his eternal Love,

And all within Himself. Now turn your sight   40

On what must follow. Rescued from above,

Man’s nature, thus restored to share the light

With what had made it, once more good and pure,

By its own act was banned from Paradise

For having turned aside from the one sure

Way of the truth and its own life. The price

Was high. Compare the anguish of the cross

With what the human-natured Holy Word

Betrayed, and it was just, that painful loss.

But neither was there ever wrong incurred   50

To match the agony unleashed against

The human that the nature rested in.

From one act, diverse outcomes were dispensed:

The same death worked two different ways to win

Pleasure for God, and also for the Jews.

The earth quaked and the sky gaped. No more, then,

Should it seem harsh to you to hear the views

Of those who think just vengeance was done when

Just vengeance was avenged in a high court.

But now I see your mind is in a knot   60

Of tangled thought pulled tight through tangled thought

It longs to be released from. You say ‘What

I hear I follow: why God willed this way

To our redemption leaves me in the dark.’

Though this rule never sees the light of day

In anyone whose mind has missed the mark

Of growing as a flame to adulthood,

Yet since so many take aim with such zeal

And with so little sense, perhaps I should

Inform you why that way seemed the most real   70

Of all the ways that might lead men to good.

Goodness divine, which spurns all envy hence,

Burning within, so sparkles, it displays

All the eternal beauties. That intense

Ignition point sends out a further blaze

Without end, since its imprint, once embossed,

Does not grow pale. That which comes down like rain,

Free straight away, with not a droplet lost—

Nothing expended that it can’t regain—

Pays no heed to the power of changing things.   80

Conforming to that Goodness, it is more

Delightful to it, since the light that rings

The Holy Ardour puts its greatest store

Of brightness in what most resembles it.

Of all these gifts to man, if even one

Is lacking in full force, then it is fit

That he should fall from his place in the sun.

Nothing but sin can disenfranchise him,

And make him so unlike the Good Supreme

That, even lit by that light, he stays dim   90

And can’t regain his place and thus redeem

His Dignity, unless he fills the void

Made by his fault, and pays the penalties

Fit for a pleasure sinfully enjoyed.

Your nature forfeited these dignities

When first it sinned, back there in the first man,

Who bore the seed of sin, and you were torn

From Paradise, and not since time began

Could what you lost within you be reborn

Except by crossing one of these two fords:   100

God in his clemency is moved to spare

The sinner, or the sinner’s just rewards

For folly are offset through what he gives

By way of satisfaction. Fix your eyes

Within the unplumbed well where it most lives,

The Eternal Counsel. Closely scrutinise

My words. Within his limits, man could not

Ever give satisfaction, for so low

He could not humbly stoop—no matter what

Obedience he found it fit to show—   110

As he had thought, by disobedience,

To rise up, and this is the reason why

Man was debarred from any competence

To render satisfaction and go high

All by himself. And thus God was compelled,

By his own ways, to give full life again

To man through truth, or mercy, or the meld

Of both. But since to do good feels best when

The doer does it most from his good heart,

Goodness Divine, which shapes the world alone,   120

Was glad, in raising you for a new start,

To use both ways. Nor was there ever known—

Nor will be, in between the first of days

And last of nights—a process so sublime

And glorious in either of those ways,

Justice and mercy: not in all of time.

Giving Himself so man, if he would rise

Again, could do so, God was bounteous

Beyond what He would now seem in our eyes

If He had simply, and for His own use,   130

Granted a pardon. Other means fell short

Of justice. So the Son of God took on,

In all humility, a form of flesh.

But seeing all your doubts are not yet gone,

One point I’ll touch again and treat afresh,

So you may see it clearly. You say: ‘I

See water, I see fire, and air, and earth,

And all their blends, grow old and putrefy,

Not lasting long. Yet these things had their birth:

Creation, unless you told me a lie,   140

Should have preserved them.’ Brother, here’s what’s true:

The angels, and this spotless country here

Where you are now, you might say came into

Existence wholly as they now appear—

Immediately entire. But those things you

Have named (the elements, and mixtures made

From them), all these receive their being from

Those powers which themselves are second grade,

Virtues created here, in this kingdom.

Their matter was created, and the power   150

Of all the stars that wheel around them. Each

And every soul of animal and flower

Starts as a set of elements that reach

A complex balance fit to be inspired

By shining movement from the holy lights.

But your soul’s life is on the instant fired

By one abrupt breath from the height of heights:

The benefaction flows straight from its source

In Him, and so imbues the soul with love

Of Him: it wants to join Him with full force   160

For ever after, where He reigns above.

And from all this, it follows that you can

Argue your case for resurrection. Just

Recall how flesh was first formed into man.

For your first parents, too, rose from the dust

At one breath. Bodily decay began

Only with sin. Immortal life you lost,

But now you are redeemed. At what a cost!”

CANTO 8

Venus of Cyprus—the world once believed,

To its great peril—radiated love,

Mad love, in her third circle as she weaved

Her wiles around this star, the centre of

Her crazed affections. Ancient people thought

(An ancient error) that not only she

Should have the honour of their full support

Through sacrifice and song, but Dione

Her mother, and her little son, Cupid,

Who lay, they said, in Dido’s bosom, where   10

He lit the fire for what that lady did

To lure Aeneas and to keep him there.

And from the goddess, with whom here I take

My start, the star-map makers took the name

Of Venus, she that finds two ways to make

Love to the sun, first with her morning flame

And then again at evening. I was not

Conscious of rising into it, but more

That I was simply there, a sense I got

Further assurance of, now that I saw   20

My lady grown more fair. And as within

A flame we see sparks, and within a voice

We hear another voice as both begin

To interweave, each making its own choice,

One holding close to the melodic line,

While the other comes and goes to harmonise,

So I saw lights within that light define

Their separate circles each in separate guise

Of speed, some swift, some slow, thus to accord

With their eternal vision, so I think—   30

And never, down from cold cloud, winds have poured,

Seen or unseen, quicker than eyes can blink,

As not to seem hamstrung to anyone

Who saw those lovely lights fly to our side,

Leaving the dance that they had first begun

Up there where the most powerful abide,

The Seraphim. And from those ranged in view

Before us, came “Hosanna,” with a sound

That ever since I’ve longed to hear anew.

Then one drew near and said this: “You have found   40

All of us ready at your pleasure. You

May have your joy of us. We circle round

In one orbit, with one thirst, at one pace

Along with those high princes you addressed

As ‘You that move the third exalted place

By understanding,’ and at your behest,

And just to do you pleasure for your grace,

A little quiet may be no less sweet—

Since we are all so very full of love.”

After my reverent eyes were raised to meet   50

My lady’s, and returned from there above

With notice of approval, they again

Turned to that light which had pledged me so much,

And I said “Tell me who you are.” And when

I spoke, I showed how deep had been the touch

Of that sweet vow to answer me. And then

I saw its size and incandescence grow,

Fuelled by the new joy added to its joys.

Thus changed, it said: “Not long the world below

Held me. For not a man’s life, but a boy’s,   60

I led. Had I lived longer, much that now

We know as evil never would have been.

My joy hides me from you, and this is how:

Its rays, cocooning me, keep me unseen,

A worm in its own silk. How you loved me

Had cause, for if I’d had more time to dwell

Down there, you would have had much more to see

Of my love than the leaves. I, Charles Martel,

Would have been there to offer you the fruits.

All of Provence I would have held as lord,   70

And everything of Naples to its roots

Down in Ausonia had been my ward,

And Hungary was set to be a crown

On my brow, shining, as the Danube flows

When it leaves Germany. And then look down

Beyond the end of where your own land goes,

To Sicily, which also had been mine,

Even that coast where the sirocco blows

In from the sea to scour the gulf’s curved line,

And Etna’s sulphur, not Typhon beneath,   80

Darkens the land which would have found its kings

Through me, to wear the future’s royal wreath,

Passed down from the conjoining line that springs

From Rudolph and my father. But bad rule

By Charles the First made such a botch of things,

The French were slain because one man was cruel,

One of their own, and so Palermo cried

‘Death, death to them,’ and if they could not say

The shibboleth, then on the spot they died,

And finally the rest were sent away.   90

And if my brother Robert learned from this,

He’d shun already the catchpenny greed

Of Catalans, and put due emphasis

On how the nobles from that country need

More stipends all the time. He should make sure,

Or someone should, there is no further load

Put on his ship, for it can take no more.

His forebears were large-hearted, but the road

Of royal charity runs out in him.

He’s mean, and should have chevaliers to serve   100

His cause whose first concern is not to skim

His income as if that’s what they deserve.”

And I: “Because, my lord, you see as well

As I do, the deep joy your words have filled

Me with—because you have a way to tell

Through that source by which all good is instilled

Into existence without end—so I

Am all the more glad, and I hold it dear,

That you see this in seeing God on high.

You’ve made me happy, and you’ve made things clear,   110

Because by speaking you’ve raised in my mind

The question how we come to get sweet seed

From bitter fruit.” And he spoke in this kind:

“The human character does not just breed:

God gives it to us, working through the stars.

I’ll show you how this is a truth you need

Before your eyes: your attitude debars

Real knowledge, and your back hides what is meant.

The Good that spins the kingdom of the skies

You climb, and makes the whole of it content,   120

Determines, in the world that lives and dies,

All that occurs, and works its will through these

Celestial bodies. All, all is foreseen

In the divine mind: the varieties

Of nature, yes, but also what they’ll mean

Disposed across the universal frame,

Thus forming the well-being of the whole.

For anything the bow shoots, it’s the same:

It falls contributing to that one goal

Of providence, an arrow to the mark.   130

If that were not so, this sky where you walk

Would generate confusion and go dark,

Make ruins and not art. Our senses balk

At such a prospect, for it would entail

Faults in the minds that move the starry wheels,

The First Intelligence would have to fail

In giving out the guarantees and seals

Of all perfections. Do you need this theme

Expounded further?” And I: “Not at all.

I see how nature, to complete its scheme   140

Can fail in nothing. It’s impossible.”

Whence he continued: “Think on this then. Would

A man be worse off if on Earth he were

No citizen?” And I: “That’s understood.

No proof is needed.” He: “Can that occur

(Citizenship) unless, in different ways

Men live below and do the things they do?

All this your Aristotle well portrays.”

He argued thus, and then continued. “You

Must know, therefore, your actions all diverge   150

At root. For one man, Solon, legislates,

While Xerxes fights, having a different urge.

Melchizedek’s a craftsman: he creates

In one way, but then Daedalus invents

The means to fly, and so his son is lost—

And circling nature, in the broader sense,

Employs one art. The mortal wax embossed

With her seal has no house that stands apart

From all the other houses. So it was

That Esau was not Jacob, and the heart   160

Of Romulus was no less great because

He was a peasant’s son. Indeed Rome thought

Mars was his father. All that are begot,

If Providence did not act as it ought,

Would echo their begetters, like as not.

As the divine decides, so men are wrought

To be themselves. Now what was held concealed

Behind your back you see before you. But,

Just so my joy in you can stand revealed,

Take this corollary and wrap it shut   170

About you, one more cloak around your gown:

Always, should nature meet with fortune ill

Adapted to it, then, like seed flung down

Away from its own soil, it can’t fulfil

Its usual expectations of success,

And if the world below could only set

Its mind on fundamental naturalness,

What men were meant to give you, you would get.

But you switch someone—cut out to profess

The art of wielding the long, war-like sword—   180

Towards religion; and you make a king

From someone whose proclivities accord

With preaching sermons; and that way you bring

Yourself to lose track, and lose everything.”

CANTO 9

After your husband Charles enlightened me

In this way, fair Clemence, he then went on

To outline all the kinds of treachery

He knew his seed would meet when he was gone,

And then he said “But silence. Let the years

Revolve.” So there is nothing I can say

Except that, from your wrongs, deserved sad tears

Must follow. But the soul had turned away

Already—lamp inside that holy light—

Towards the sun that fills it, to the Good   10

Sufficient to all things. Ah, souls of night,

Creatures beguiled and void of reverence, would

You turn away your hearts from such a source

Of virtue, and seek vanity instead?

You would, alas. But now, on the same course

Towards me—and again such light was shed

The form was cloaked—another spirit moved

In brightness, and by brightening yet more

In silence, its desire to please was proved.

And Beatrice, too, by resting as before   20

Her eyes on me, without a word expressed

Assent to my desire. Then I: “Pray bring,

Blessed spirit, means to set my mind at rest

With all speed. I need proof of just one thing:

That when I think, I have no need to speak,

Since you’re a mirror that reflects my thought.”

The light, in whose depths I could only seek

Vainly to know who shed it, as I sought,

Continued, from the depths whence it had sung:

“In Italy, depraved land, where the hills   30

Climb behind Venice up to meet, among

The crags, the Brenta’s first pool where it spills

Out of the spring, and the Piave flows

To make its mark, there is a slope whence came

The firebrand Ezzelino. The world knows

He laid the district waste. That was his fame,

And I, Cunizza, was his sister. Here

I shine because this star’s light ruled my life,

And set Sordello singing in my ear

When I already was Riccardo’s wife.   40

He ruled Verona, but the troubadour

Took me away, and after him I fled

With Bonio, and there were several more

I loved, and then a couple more I wed.

But I forgive the cause of my warm ways—

This might seem strange to you and to your crowd—

Because it led me up into this blaze

Of love perfected. For the brilliant, proud

And precious jewel beside me, fame remained,

And will remain, from now, for five more turns   50

Of century like this one. It’s ordained,

Thereby, that man, from this example, learns

How striving in the first life to do well

Can bring a second life the first one earns.

But nobody observes that principle

Among the ragtag bunch that teems between

The Tagliamento and the Adige:

Though punished often, they are never seen

To get the point. Yet there will come a day,

And soon, when Paduans, because they balk   60

At duty to the emperor, will sprawl,

Spreading their blood where men wade as they walk,

In the marshland of Vicenza. And the tall

Proud head of that Rizzardo who commands

Treviso doesn’t know the web is spun

Already that will snare him. At the hands

Of Feltre’s bishop, evil will be done.   70

That godless one will give up those who take

Refuge with him, and so they will be slain,

And Feltre will weep long for that man’s sake,

So faithless, no one’s ever known the pain

Of being locked up in the Citadel

Of Padua who more deserved that fate—

Not even in its tower, that slice of hell

They nickname ‘Malta’ for the stony weight

That comes down on its dungeon, a cold roof

To match the muddy floor. For great indeed

Would be the vat to hold the liquid proof

Of how those Ferrarese in their need

Were sold out, and whoever gets the task   80

Of weighing out that spilled blood cup by cup

Will soon grow tired and lean against the cask

He pours it into. But the priest goes up

In the Guelph party’s eyes for this one gift

So courteously given, as befits

The custom of his country. Here we lift

Our thoughts aloft to where God’s judgement sits,

There where the mirrors shine that you call Thrones,

And from them shines on me the right to think

And say such things.” And then her singing tones   90

Fell silent, as she turned to form a link

Of that ring where she was before, or so

I guessed. The other radiant happiness,

Already known to me for its rich glow,

Became more precious yet, became priceless,

A perfect ruby struck with the sun’s fire:

For up there, every joy becomes more bright

Like laughter here, but here, when thoughts retire

In sadness, shadows spread through the delight

And it goes dark. I said: “God sees it all,   100

And how you see is in Him, so no wish

Can hide from you. How, then, does it befall

That your voice is an insufficient dish

To satisfy my hungers, though it shares

With singing six-winged seraphim the role

Of pleasing Heaven? Without splitting hairs,

If I dwelt in the centre of your soul

As you in mine, you would not need to state

A question.” He: “The giant valley where

The sea that girds the world spills through the gate   110

And spreads east through its misbehaving pair

Of shorelines so far that the day comes late

From east to west, the sea against the sun

Until Jerusalem’s meridian

And Spain’s horizon could be drawn as one

Right angle: there I lived my earthly span

In the area marked out, on the north strand,

Between the Ebro and the Magra, just

Across the water from the rocky land

Where Bugia lies, so each day the sun must—   120

In Africa and where I live—both rise

And fall at roughly the same time. And my

Marseilles, when Caesar took it as a prize,

Once made the harbour thick with blood. And by

People who knew my name there, I was called

Folco. This heaven here is stamped with love

As it stamped me. Dido was never galled

By passion—when it led her on to steal

Aeneas from his wife, and to betray

Her husband—more than I was when my youth   130

Had all its hair; nor she of Rhodope,

The Thracian princess, when she heard the truth

About her straying man; nor Hercules

Who died for love of Iole. Here, though,

We don’t repent, but rather, unlike these,

We smile—not for the fault that plagued us so,

Back there, but now does not come back to mind—

We smile to thank that Force which, in advance,

Both ordered and foresaw. For here we find

The object of our thoughts is in this dance   140

Of art, this beauty, this sublime result.

We see the good by which the world above

Wheels round the one below, and we exult.

But so you may, out of this sphere of love,

Take satisfaction for the wishes born

When you came in, let me speak more on this.

You’d like a name to fit this burst of dawn

Beside me, sparkling as the sunbeams kiss

The water. In this light, Rahab finds peace,

Who gave Christ’s envoys, though she was a whore,   150

Their lodging, so the lights of love’s increase

Attain here, as her just reward, far more

Intensity than she once knew, and now

She is with us, and of the highest grade

Our order grants: all other ranks must bow

To honour her, once last but now the first,

Since grateful Christ in triumph wished for it,

She sits up here in state where the dispersed

Last shadow of the earth ends. It was fit,

Indeed, some heaven should receive her as   160

A victory trophy for those sweet palms split

With nails, because she favoured—this cause has

No great place in the Pope’s thought—Joshua

And his first glory, Christ’s great sacrifice,

There in the Holy Land. But Lucifer

Planted your city, he whose whole device

Was to betray his Maker, and from whom

Hot tears of envy come. Your Florence grows,

And spreads, the florin, the gold flower whose doom

Is to mislead the sheep and lambs, for those   170

Follow the shepherds, who all have the jaws

Of raging wolves. For this, the Gospels sink

Into neglect, and all the holy laws

Of the great teachers. Students, taught to think

Mere canon law important, scrawl their script

In margins. Popes do this, and cardinals,

By self-esteem and scribbling fever gripped.

Their thoughts go not to Nazareth. Gabriel’s

Wings were once spread there. But the Vatican,

Where Peter died, and all those sacred parts   180

Of Rome where martyrs served that holy man

With soldiers’ deaths, will from those cheating arts

Of profanation be set free, and at

An early date, you may be sure of that.”

CANTO 10

As God looked on His son, the Word, with all

The power of Love that both of them exhale,

He, three in one, first and ineffable,

Created everything, fit without fail,

That turns in space and in the mind, and so

No one who looks upon it can but taste

His presence in whatever we can know.

Therefore look up to where the wheels are placed

Aloft, reader. Lift up your eyes with mine

And aim at that point where the sun and moon   10

And planets cross the equatorial line

There in the stars. Thus you’ll enjoy the boon

Of taking pleasure in your Master’s art,

Whose eyes are fixed upon it endlessly,

So much He loves that movement in the heart

Of one wheel through another, while we see

The day turn one way, and the way the year

Turns in the other. See the branching out,

Obliquely, of the circle where appear

Planets that answer, as they move about,   20

The wishes of the world. And if their track

Were not askew, much virtue would be vain

In Heaven, for just let the Zodiac

Be more, or less, divergent from the plane

It turns in—that which governs its straight course—

And, as the virtue there, so would we lose

Potential here, a falling-off of force

In the order of the world, both low and high.

Stay at your bench now, reader, and think through

The first taste that I’ve given you to try.   30

You’ll tire before it stops delighting you.

The dish set down, now you must eat alone,

For I’ve been made scribe of a theme that bends

Towards its telling all the care I own.

Measuring everything that starts and ends

With light, and stamping on the world the worth

Of Heaven, nature’s greatest minister,

The sun, conjoined with where spring has its birth,

As I have noted, wheeled through dawns that were

Early each time, the spiral of its drift   40

Towards the summer and its lengthened stay,

And I was there but didn’t see the shift

Of its position more than when we say

We have a new thought just before the thought

Appears in our minds. Beatrice is the one

Who leads this instantaneous transport

From good to better so the thing is done

In no time. How they must have burned so bright

Just in themselves, the ones inside the sun,

Distinguished not by colour but by light!   50

If I had practice, genius and skill

To conjure in the measure of that sight,

My telling would be insufficient still

To give the picture through the power of speech.

We must believe, and long for it, and should

Our poor imaginations fail to reach

Such heights, it is no shame. As if they could!

For no light like the sun was ever seen

By human eye. Thus they were shining there,

The fourth family, of all those who had been   60

Set on their course by this realm of His care,

The Father on the heights, who satisfies

The theologians and the learned ones,

By showing them the way He breathes, and ties

Three kinds of breath together, His, the Son’s

And Holy Ghost’s. Then Beatrice: “Praise and prize

The sun that lights the angels, our great Lord,

Who, by His grace, has raised you up to see

His radiance.” No heart had ever soared

To give itself to God as speedily   70

As mine at these words, with its whole consent

And all its love so fixed on Him, that she

Who spoke was blotted out. She was content

To be forgotten, and indeed she smiled:

Smiled with such splendour that her glance dissolved

My mind’s absorption, so the thoughts compiled

Within it all became far less involved,

Dividing into many subjects. I

Saw many brilliant flashing lights converge

On us, the point they were attracted by.   80

They formed a crown, from which we heard emerge

Voices yet sweeter than their aspect shone.

Sometimes we see the moon, Diana, shine

Yet brighter for the girdle she has on:

That soft and shimmering halo is the sign

The air is charged with water. In the court

Of Heaven I’ve returned from, many jewels

Are found, more beautiful than can be thought,

And past all price, and, by the kingdom’s rules,

There they must stay. This song was one of those—   90

The song of lights. He that does not take wing

To fly up there, it is as if he chose

To hear news from the dumb. The angels sing

To souls whose virtues lift them to the heights.

So, singing thus, three times these burning suns

Had swept around us, as, on starry nights,

Stars near the poles move faster, but these ones

To me seemed ladies, still held by the dance,

Who pause in silence, listening till they sense

The new strain, which will take them from their trance.   100

And so, in one of them, I heard commence

This speech: “The beam of grace that lights true love

And grows by loving, shines so multiplied

In you, that it has brought you here above

By that stair which nobody took a stride

Back down except to mount again. One who

Refused, from his jug, wine to quench your thirst,

Would know the obstacles the rivers do,

Restricted by the rocks they’d like to burst

And so resume their unimpeded flow   110

Towards the sea. You ask, what flowers bloom

Here in this garland whose love-glances glow

Around the lady by the powers of whom

You gain your strength for Heaven. You should know

That I am Thomas of Aquinas. He

Here on my right is Albert of Cologne,

My master. We were both lambs glad to be

Of that flock where, if none strays on its own,

It eats well of the true food, for the soul.

We were Dominicans. If, for the rest,   120

You’d have such facts, then follow round the whole

Wreath with your eyes as I say how it’s blessed

With famous names. Next comes the blazing smile

Of Gratian, he who well served both courts:

He worked for truth and went the extra mile

For justice, so for virtue of two sorts

He is in paradise. Next in our choir:

Peter of Lombardy, who gave the Church

All that he had. No tribute can rank higher

Than that. His four great books, where we may search   130

Successfully for truth in dogma, give

A new equivalent for those two coins

The widow gave God, and like them they live,

For everything’s the widow’s mite that joins

All we possess to heaven. Then there comes

The fifth light, the most lovely in the wreath,

A breath of such love that it still benumbs

The senses of those in the world beneath,

Who starve for news of it. It’s Solomon,

Given such wisdom in his lofty mind   140

The learned disputation still goes on

That he might have been saved, for of that kind

Of vision there’s been nothing since his rule.

And Dionysius is next in line,

A candle now, that burns in this bright school,

But down there in the flesh, when day was dim,

He still saw into what the angels are

And how they minister. And then, within

The next small light, smiles he who was by far

The advocate that best explained how sin   150

Grew less in Christian times, Orosius,

Whose treatise was such help to Augustine.

And if your mind’s eye scans those I discuss

From left to right as you hear what I mean,

You seek the eighth already. There he is,

Boethius. He rose from martyrdom

And exile to this peace. Who knows of his

Vision of goodness knows this light comes from

A body left below the Golden Roof,

For so the church in Pavia is now called   160

Where he was put to rest after the proof

Of how the world deceives, which saw him walled

Into the prison where he wrote his book

On how philosophy consoles. And then,

Beyond a little further, if you look,

You’ll see three more flames that were once three men.

There’s Bishop Isodore, he of Seville

And the Encyclopedia, and there is Bede

Of England and the sermons and the skill

In doctrine, and then comes the prior we read   170

For mysticism, Richard, who was born

In Scotland, but in Paris lived to prove

That contemplation leaves mere man forlorn,

For it is more than man. And then you move

Your eyes to me from that light there, which holds

Brabant’s Siger, so coiled and crushed in thought

He thought that death, to free him from thought’s folds,

Came slowly, but in Italy was taught,

Through treachery, that it can come too soon,

And all he’d talked of in the Street of Straw   180

In Paris, about how the opportune

Had no role in Creation, for the Law

Determined all: that doctrine played its part

If forming the high truth which turns dispute

Into a driving force. Then, with the art

By which a clock, both early and astute,

Tells us the Church, the Bride of Christ, will sing

Matins to its dear Bridegroom, that He may

Adore her, and one tiny part will bring

Another closer so the interplay   190

Triggers the actuation of a spring

Striking a chime to herald the new day

So sweetly the well-ordered spirit swells

With love, just so I saw the glorious wheel

Rotate, and, voice to voice, like peals of bells,

Give out the harmony no one can feel

Except there, where eternal joy is real.

CANTO 11

Thick-witted mortal cares, how false and vain

Your earthbound reasoning, that keeps your wings

Beating in downward flight! One hoped to gain

Letters in law, one strove to do great things

In medicine, one followed the priesthood,

One set himself to rule, by craft or force,

One studied robbery, one found the good

In state affairs, one signed on for a course

In carnal knowledge—though he understood

He would need weary years to graduate—   10

And one did absolutely nothing. I,

Set free of all these lures, was in a state

Of grace with Beatrice high in the sky,

Received in glory. When each light returned

To where it was before, at the same place—

As if, upon its stand, a candle burned—

It stopped. Within its radiance, the face

Which had already spoken spoke once more,

Smiling and brighter yet. “As I reflect

Its beams, so in the Light Eternal I see your   20

Thoughts and their cause. They intersect

With my gaze. You have doubts, and want my words

Made plain and clear—so you can understand

On your own level—touching on the herds

Of sheep well fed, and on the other hand

My reference to no second Solomon.

Here, in both cases, we must make distinct

The meaning of each word we dwell upon:

Expression and significance are linked.

The Providence Divine that rules the course   30

Of all the human world with its decrees,

Strikes blind, with its unfathomable force,

All eyesight in creation, comes to please

Solely the understanding of that one

Who is the Bride of Him that cried aloud

In agony for what the blind had done.

With sacred blood He married her. Now, proud

In her position and her faithfulness

To Him, she finds her sure way to his side,

Her guides, two princes matched in their prowess:   40

The one, St. Francis, always sanctified

By his seraphic ardour, kept the watch

For faith. The other was St. Dominic,

Who always screwed his knowledge up a notch

And so, in splendour, shook the heretic

With his cherubic light. Two souls, one mind.

I, the Dominican, shall speak in praise

Of Francis, since the way those two combined

Means lauding either one will work both ways,

Commending each for working to one end.   50

There where Perugia feels the heat and cold,

And where poor Gualdo and Nocera bend

Their heads beneath the yoke that they must hold

With weary arms, for they receive less light,

There falls a fertile mountain slope between

Two waters. One comes streaming from the height

Where once Ubaldo’s guiding hand was seen.

The other’s the Topino. From that hill,

Where, at Assisi, steepness most gives way

To level ground, a sun—as this sun will   60

Rise sometimes from the Ganges—broke like day,

A dawn called Francis. Not ‘I rose’ but ‘East’

Would be a better name for that blessed place.

‘Ascesi’ is a small word. At the least,

We should invoke, to suit a splendid case,

The orient ‘ex alto.’ He had not

Yet risen far when first the earth began

To feel strong from his mighty virtue. What

Marked out his course was how, still a young man,

He crossed his father for a lady’s sake—   70

She to whom nobody unlocks the door

Of his free will, but only by mistake,

As he might do with death—and so, before

The bishop, and with his own father there,

He married her. Her name was Poverty,

And he gave her each day more loving care.

Bereft of her first husband, Jesus, she

Could only wait—unknown even by name,

More than eleven hundred years despised—

Without a suitor, loyal till he came.   80

Not even Amyclas could make her prised

When he stood up to Caesar in his fame,

A fisherman who faced that fearful voice

And only with her spirit; and the same

When she had so much courtesy to show

And courage, as Christ mounted on the cross,

While Mary, full of love, remained below,

But lest my speech should leave you at a loss

With metaphors, let’s say, in all I’ve said,

Francis and Poverty both loved as one,   90

Their harmony and happy glances led

To wonder among men, and sweet dreams spun

In thought, and holy pondering. And thus

It was, that Venerable Bernard first

Ran barefoot, at a speed which still to us

Seems quick enough, though he thought he was cursed

With slowness. And then, barefoot too, goes Giles,

Barefoot Sylvester, following the groom,

They’re so pleased with the bride. Onward for miles

That father, subject to a humble doom   100

It seemed, yet still a master, took the road,

He and his lady and their family tied

Together with a single cord. His code

For being just a merchant’s son was pride

Not cowardice, nor was his brow weighed down

For being subject to contempt and scorn,

As if a circus act had come to town.

Instead, as if to royal purple born,

He showed his colours to Pope Innocent,

And from that firm resolve came the first seal    110

Upon his order. And so on he went,

The convoy of his brothers at his heel

Increasing always, so their life was sung

Better by heaven’s glory than my voice:

The angels are a choir, and I one tongue.

And so the shepherd who had made his choice

For owning nothing, wore a crown again.

Honorius bestowed it, as envoy

Of the eternal sprit. And then, when,

Thirsting for martyrdom, for him a joy,   120

He’d preached of Christ and his devoted men

In the palace of the Sultan, greatly proud,

And found the Saracens had not begun

To be ripe for conversion, he, unbowed,

But seeing that it could not serve the turn

To stay, went back to where his homeland yields

A surer harvest. There he came to earn—

High on a crag arising from the fields

Between the Tiber and the Arno—his

Last seal, received from Christ—and all who know   130

What Christ’s wounds were will know what that seal is—

And for two years his body was marked so,

Until the time came for his great reward

When God, who destined him for so much good,

Raised him at last to heights that would accord

With how he’d kept as lowly as he could.

And to his brothers, as his rightful heirs,

He gave the keeping of his lady dear

And bade them love her and soothe all her cares

So she might never more have cause to fear   140

That they might not be faithful, and then, from

Her bosom his great soul chose to take wing

On his returning flight to its kingdom,

Because bare earth, bereft of everything,

Was all the pomp of his bier. Ponder now

What kind of man was this man’s fit ally

To keep the bark of Peter’s questing prow

Rightly directed when the seas were high,

And such was Dominic, our patriarch:

Meaning his followers, you may perceive,   150

All carry merchandise of goodly mark

If they obey him. But you must believe

His flock has grown so greedy for new food—

Positions, honours, dignities and such

Distractions—that they’re by themselves pursued

To scatter in wild pastures, out of touch

With their first shepherd, and the more footloose

They wander from his guidance, the less milk

They bring back to the fold. So they’re no use,

And those that stay close are the fearful ilk   160

Who just seek safety, and get little stuff

To suit their cowls. If now my words are not

Obscure, and you have listened long enough

So there is something you have not forgot,

You will be satisfied in part, and see

The way the plant is wasted, and what’s meant

By that correction in the homily:

‘Where we eat well’ was how the first words went,

But ‘If we do not stray’ spells discontent.”

CANTO 12

The moment the blest flame said its last word,

The holy millstone once again began

To turn, and from where that last word was heard

The ring of light, according to its plan

Of circularity, was turning yet,

Its course unfinished, when another one

Just like it formed around it, so they met

Each other’s match in how the thing was done:

All movements mirrored, each song echoed song—

Songs which our muses and our sirens here   10

On earth, though they should play however long

On their sweet pipes, could never quite come near

With their reflection of a splendour. When

Two rainbows, colourful in parallel,

Curve through thin cloud, the inner one again

Born in the outer—Juno bends to tell

Her handmaid Iris what to do—the voice

Of Echo lives again, the nymph whom love

For her Narcissus left without a choice

Except to fade, as the bright sun above    20

Devours all vapours. People here presage

The world, because of God and Noah’s pact,

Will not be flooded in a later age

As once it was, and so we saw, in fact,

Those two wreaths of eternal roses turn

Around us, and the way the one within

Induced the outer one to sing and burn

At its command. Then all the joyous din

Of that great dancing festival, its flame

And song, its play of light with light,   30

Its grace, stopped all together at the same

Moment, with one accord. Our human sight

Works just that way, whenever both our eyes

Moved by one impulse, must together close

And open. But then one new light gave rise

To such a voice that, as the needle shows

The pathway to the star, I turned to it.

“The love,” it said, “that makes us beautiful

Draws me to hail another master, fit

To praise, since in his name we have heard all   40

The good things said about my leader. Let

Great Dominic be lauded now just as

Francis has been, for both, let’s not forget,

Fought for one end. Each sun of glory has

A right to shine, in one great blaze well met.

Christ’s army, the Church militant, which cost

So dear to rearm, slowly moved, and few

And full of doubt, and looking next to lost,

Behind their standard. Then the emperor who

Forever reigns on high provided for   50

His soldiers in their peril—not from their

Deserving of his helping hand, but more

From the unbounded mercy of his care—

And, as we said, two heroes He assigned

His Bride, and they inspired, by word and deed,

His scattered troops. And where we look to find

Sweet Zephyr rising to breathe on the seed

And spread new leaves in Europe by which she

Sees herself clothed again, there in the west,

Not far inland from where the waves can be   60

Heard beating behind which the sun will rest

In summer from his long trajectory

And hide from men, lies favoured, in Castile,

The town of Calaruega, by the shield

Protected where we see one lion kneel

As subject, and the other rule the field.

And there the Christian faith’s most faithful man,

The holy athlete gracious to his own

And cruel to foes, was born. His mind began,

As soon as formed, to show how, all alone,   70

It had such power that, in his mother’s womb,

It made a prophet of her, so she dreamed

About a dog let loose in a dark room,

And, in its mouth, a hot torch that redeemed.

And when the sacred nuptials between

Him and the faith before the holy font

Were signed and sealed, and each of them had been

Dowered by the other with all both could want

Of being saved, his godmother, who gave

Assent for him, saw glowing in her sleep   80

A star set in his brow, which was the brave

Symbol of what would spring from him, and keep

On springing from his heirs, a marvellous fruit,

And, that his name might signal what he was,

A spirit put the Lord’s name at the root

Of his name, Dominic, spelt thus because

The form, possessive, showed he was possessed

Completely by his God. Of him I speak

As of the labourer Christ thought the best

To help Him in that Garden where we seek   90

Eternity on earth, our Holy Church.

Herald he seemed indeed, and of the house

Of Christ himself, for if today we search

Among his actions, all of them espouse

Christ’s love, even the first, which has the ring

Of Christ’s first counsel, which was ‘First seek ye

God’s kingdom.’ And there was another thing:

Often the nuns would find him silently

Awake stretched on the ground, as if to say

‘For this end am I come.’ Happy indeed   100

His father, with a name fit to display—

Felice—satisfaction, as we read

The grace of God set in his mother’s name,

Giovanna. Medicine and common law,

From which bright students take now their world fame,

Had no appeal. He loved true manna more,

Becoming, in so short a time, so great

A teacher, that he tamed the vineyard which

Soon withers if its keeper should be late,

Or lazy with his care, or would grow rich   110

In the wrong way, and to the papal seat—

Not in itself, but in its occupant,

Less kind now to the just poor, yet replete

In favour to itself, blind to its scant

Distance from decadence—he made appeal,

Not for the right to skim funds for good works,

Not for the first free post, not for a deal

To milk the tithes, not for the cosy perks,

But for the chance to fight the erring world

For faith, the seed from which they grew,   120

These twenty-four plants, each a flame unfurled,

The singing fires that here encircle you.

Then, like a torrent from a high spring hurled,

With doctrine, zeal and apostolic force

He went forth, and with mighty strength he fell

Upon those thorn bushes which were the source

Of heresy, and pummelled them pell-mell,

Most vigorously where they best fought back.

From him there sprang the energising streams

By which the thirsty saplings, when they lack   130

Sufficient water, flourish as it teems

In the Catholic garden. If such was one wheel

Of Holy Church’s fighting chariot—

With which she saved herself and brought to heel

Her enemies—then surely you are not

In doubt about the other excellence

That Thomas spoke of before I appeared,

And spoke so courteously. In one sense,

However, its top rim is cracked and peeled,

Or put it this way: mould has lined the cask   140

There where a good wine ought to leave a crust.

The wine went bad. His family at their task

Had started on the one path they could trust,

Formed by his footprints, but they turned about,

The one in front thrown on the one behind.

The lax were lauded and the strict cast out

And soon there’ll be a harvest of the kind

Where tares, denied the barn, start to complain.

Whoever searched our rule book page by page

Might still find on one leaf, after some strain,   150

‘I’m what I once was, even in this age,’

But he would be from neither of the schools

That vie to dominate the order now—

The one that petrifies its hallowed rules

Of poverty, the other that tells how

They count no more. I was the living soul

Of that man born in Bagnoregio

To lead the order and to keep it whole

By always rating worldly matters low.

Bonaventura was my name. And these?   160

Illuminato, early follower

Of Francis, and among the first to please

God with their barefoot poverty. They were

The vanguard of the cord. Here’s Augustine,

Another of them. Then the mystic Hugh,

Who at St. Victor wrote the books that mean

So much now; as, you must know, also do

The writings of the Bookworm Peter. Next,

Peter the Spaniard, logic’s champion,

Who codified it in twelve sheaves of text   170

That shine below for you to dwell upon.

The prophet Nathan foretold David’s sin

With someone else’s wife, and Chrysostom

Fought greed and helped the great Church to begin;

And then Anselm, in all of Christendom

The greatest theologian of his time.

And then Donatus, who once set his hand

To grammar, the first art, so we might climb

From verbal chaos and thus understand

Expressive form, one of the special fields   180

Of the Franciscan order. He who wrote

So much of the great library that yields

Our knowledge about everything of note

In exegesis, is Rabanus. See

Him there. And then the abbot Joachim,

Born in Calabria, shines close to me.

In life I quarrelled bitterly with him—

The world envisioned in his prophesy

Granted the spiritual significance

Beyond its bounds—but here we’re reconciled,   190

In how the bright connecting circles dance

Of love and knowledge. How St. Thomas smiles

On you with all his courtesy and fine

Judgement of glowing language is what draws

This celebration, from both me and mine,

Of such a mighty soldier for the cause—

Which is ours too, so this was all applause.”

CANTO 13

Let him imagine, who would comprehend

What I saw now—and let him hold the thought

Rock solid, while I speak, until the end—

The fifteen stars whose light is never caught

By any barrier in all the air,

Shining in various regions of the sky.

Let him imagine also the Great Bear

Of seven stars—which freely turn on high

Around a pole with room enough to keep

All visible—and add them to the score.   10

And then let him imagine how the steep

High axle-hub that caps the First Wheel’s core

Puts forth the Horn where two more stars stand out

Within the Little Bear. Then think of these

Two dozen stars arranged and turned about

All by themselves in all the right degrees

Into a pair of sparkling garlands spread

In heaven such as Ariadne made

From her wreath when she knew she’d soon be dead,

And Bacchus, loving her, raised her to braid   20

The Corona Borealis. As I said,

One shines within the other. Both revolve

In such a manner that one goes ahead,

The other after. That way he can solve

The problem, to a small extent—he’ll know

The shadow of the answer, if you will—

Of how that constellated double flow

Danced round the point where I now stood stock-still.

It lies as far beyond where thought can go—

Based on experience—as does the speed   30

In spinning of the Primum Mobile

Beyond the sluggish course through mud and reed

Of some tired Tuscan creek on a hot day.

They sang there, not of false and pagan gods

Like Bacchus or Apollo, but of three

Persons in one, combined against all odds—

And in one person, man and mystery.

The singing circle’s measure once complete,

The holy lights now gave us their regard,

Rejoicing that they had new aims to meet.   40

The change to unsung speech might have seemed hard,

But doctrine and their song permit no choice

Between. The light from which I’d heard the tale

Of Francis the Poor, man of God, gave voice.

Breaking the hush of those who never fail

To make God’s work their own, he spoke thus: “When

One sheaf is threshed and all its grain is stored—

I mean the line about the straying—then

Sweet Charity next calls me to accord

That treatment to the other. You believe   50

The light that was infused into the breast

Whence came the rib that made the whole world grieve,

Giving us her whose fair face failed the test

Of reining in her hunger—the same light

That shone into another breast, the one

The spear pierced, and which gave us, in the flight

Of past to future, satisfaction

That far outweighs, when balanced and set right,

Our every fault—you think that light, which is

The only light allowed to humankind,   60

Was all instilled by God, and is all his

Who made both man and Saviour. So your mind

Marvels at what I said about the good

Contained in the fifth light not having known

An equal since. When you have understood

The answer you have been already shown

By me, you’ll see my words and your belief

Meet in the centre of the circle, where

The truths reside. Of all truths, this is chief:

That which dies not and that which dies are there   70

As nothing but the splendour of our Sire’s

Idea, which, loving, he begets. Because

That living light—which, streaming from the fires

Of its bright source, is never, as it pours,

Detached from its first well, nor from the love

Which, with those two, makes three—collects its beams

Through its own goodness, mirrored there above

In nine angelic orders, without seams

Stitched into one forever, it descends

To earthly potencies from act to act,   80

Becoming such that all things have their ends

In brief contingency, the fleeting fact—

Things generated with, or without, seed—

Produced by movements of the heavens. Since

The wax of these, and that which does the deed

Of moulding—what’s imprinted and what prints—

Are not always the same, so that the light

Beneath the stamp can more, or less, shine through,

It happens that two trees of one type might

Bear better or worse fruit. The same with you:   90

You’re born with different talents. If the wax

Were perfectly receptive and the force

Of Heaven could run truly on the tracks

Of its descent, the seal would match the source

In brightness, but there is a falling short

By nature always, as the artist’s craft

Comes from a trembling hand. Yet keep this thought:

If the clear vision of the Primal Draught

Of Power is moved by burning Love, then all

Perfection is acquired up here. The Earth   100

Was once made fit for the impeccable

Advent of Adam, and our Saviour’s birth

Out of a virgin. Therefore I commend

Your judgement when it comes to nature’s lack

Of power ever afterwards to blend

With God, and bring that same achievement back—

Human perfection. If I left it there

And said no more, then you would say ‘So how

Was he we spoke about beyond compare?’

But just to clarify your mind, think now   110

Of who he was; and why, when bidden ‘Ask,’

He asked for wisdom. I have not concealed

My meaning with my words enough to mask

The fact he was a great king, who appealed

For knowledge suitable to that state. He

Did not ask which forms of the mental moved

This upper realm, how many they might be;

He didn’t seek to know how it is proved

Contingency undoes necessity

When any statement harbouring a doubt   120

Meets one that doesn’t; he had no concern

For motion without cause, nor cared about

A triangle that had no room to turn

Inside a semicircle if without

A right angle; or any of those things.

He wished to know only of government.

Note what I say and said, then: for the kings,

It’s royal wisdom that is heaven sent,

An unmatched vision. There the arrow lands

Of my intention. It applied to those   130

Men who wore crowns, and met the fierce demands

Of ruling in the world. Many arose:

Good ones were few, and still are hard to find.

Take my words thus, and they will fit the frame

With what you hold already in your mind,

About the world’s first father, and the same

For our Beloved. And let this be lead

To make your feet slow always, like a man

Grown weary, when a ‘yea’ or ‘nay’ is said,

And you would move as quickly as you can   140

To either point, although your sight is dim.

For he indeed is a low-ranking fool,

Whichever point of view appeals to him,

Who weighs in, either way, without the rule

Of scrutiny, since often it occurs

That quick opinion swings to the wrong side,

And then the sudden storm of feeling blurs

The intellect, and so he breasts the tide

Worse than in vain when he casts off from shore,

For as he sets out he does not return   150

The same, who, fishing for the truth, is poor

In patient art. And of this you can learn

From minor minds that Aristotle scorned:

Parmenides and others who, confused

As to their course, would not be schooled or warned.

And scholars like Sabellius abused

Their role, and, to the scriptures, they were swords

Reflecting from their blades the natural face

Distorted. So we should be strict towards

All people when they judge at too great pace,   160

Like those who count the corn crop in the field

Before it’s ripe. I’ve seen the briar show

Harsh through the winter and too hard to yield

When touched, and yet when spring comes it will grow

The rose, and on the other hand I’ve known

A ship to cross the sea for all its course

Straight as a die, swift as a hawk alone,

And, at the harbour’s entrance, with full force,

Crack up and drown. Let not just anyone,

And his wife, Mrs. Anyone, assume,   170

Therefore, that when they witness a deed done

They can be certain of the doer’s doom

On the divine scale. One who robs may rise,

And one who makes an offering may sink.

Our judgement isn’t made from just our eyes,

And least of all will it be what we think

When we have barely taken time to blink.”

CANTO 14

The water moves from rim to centre when

A round container is struck from without.

The water moves, when it is struck again—

But from within—the other way about,

Centre to rim. This proof from science fell

Into my mind the instant that the soul,

So glorious, of Thomas, ceased to tell

His story, because Beatrice took the role

Of speaker, and was pleased to follow thus:

“This man requires—he may not tell you so   10

In words, or thought detectable by us—

To reach into another truth’s roots. Go,

You lights, and tell him if you’ll keep your bloom

For all eternity as now you glow,

Your substance flowering. Should he assume

That when, at resurrection, you arise,

Made visible, you will not fear the sight,

Seeing yourselves with ordinary eyes

Despite the fact that you remain this bright?

Or do you think you won’t be able to?”   20

Just as the singing dancers in a round,

Drawn on by joy, redouble what they do,

Lifting their voices as they spurn the ground

With quickened steps, so these ones, as they flew,

Kindled by the devout oration’s spark,

Showed new delight in how they turned and sang.

Whoever grieves that we die in the dark

Down here to live above, would find that pang

Soon put to rest if he could see, up there,

Refreshment spill from the eternal source.   30

They sang of One, of Two, of how Three share

The rule of Two and One, linked fields of force

Uncircumscribed though unified. This theme

Was sung three times by all of them, to such

A melody its beauty would not seem,

For any merit that it praised, too much.

And then I heard from that most sacred blaze

Of all the inner circle, a soft voice

That Mary might have heard with dazzled gaze

From the angel sent down to announce God’s choice.   40

“As long as there’s a Feast of Heaven, just

So long our love will generate these robes

Around us. For their brightness, you may trust,

Answers our ardour as it first englobes

Our vision, which in turn is amplified

By what divine grace does to merit. When

The flesh, made glorious with sacred pride,

Is put back on to us, our persons then

Will be more worthy, being more complete,

So that the light the Great Good freely grants   50

Will grow: the light that makes us fit to meet

His overwhelming grandeur with our glance.

So vision will increase, and form that flame,

Then ardour too, and then the radiance.

With any coal that glows white, it’s the same:

The glow outshines it, but its shape is kept.

So the effulgence that surrounds us will

Be far surpassed by what in earth has slept,

The buried flesh. But we, untroubled still,

Will simply have again, to make us strong,   60

Our bodies’ organs to abet the shell

Of light you see around the dancing song

Of our great joy.” And so keen, truth to tell,

Did both those choirs appear to say “Amen,”

That they showed very clearly their deep need

To have their bodies with them once again,

Not for themselves alone, perhaps: indeed

It might have been their parents they thought of,

And everybody else they once had known,

When they had lived, for whom they had felt love,   70

Before they changed to endless flame alone.

And then, behold! All round, and more intense

Than what it framed, an unflecked brightness rose,

The lustre that the new day’s imminence

Lends the horizon. And as, at the close

Of day, new light starts showing through the sky

Until the real looks unreal, I began

To see the first two rings encircled by

A third, of new souls. Mouth, do what you can:

Describe the sparkling of the Holy Ghost.   80

Eyes could not bear it. Suddenly it glowed

Beyond the prowess that my sight could boast.

To help me see again, fair Beatrice showed

Her smiling face that beggars memory.

My eyes gained strength and lifted, and I saw

Myself moved, with my lady next to me,

Up to a plane exalted even more,

Of whose high ranking I was given proof

By Mars. More rosy-coloured than before

It now seemed. With my heart not held aloof,   90

But fully yielded, I employed the tongue—

Befitting all the loving care and grace

That lit the favours I was now among—

Of one and all when making, in that place,

The burning sacrifice to God, and still

It burned in my breast though I knew it was

Accepted, and propitious. For the spill

Of splendour was so shimmering because

Of two beams, and so roseate, I said

“Divine Sun that so glorifies this!” As   100

The galaxy, by lights inhabited—

Those lights pricked out both big and little—has

A way of whitening between the poles,

Spaced out at each end of the universe,

That puzzles still the very wisest souls—

How did it gather, when will it disperse,

This river in the sky?—the two beams made,

Thus constellated in the depths of Mars,

The venerable sign which is displayed

By quadrants in a circle, when crossed bars   110

Form the Greek cross. And here my skill must bow

To memory, for that cross so said Christ

In flames of glory, that I don’t know how

To find comparison. Who follows Christ

By taking up a cross must yet forgive

All that I leave untold, when in that dawn

He sees Christ’s outline come alight and live.

Between the peak and base, from horn to horn,

Lights moved that sparkled as they met and passed

Brightly, as, here, we see the particles   120

Of matter in the sunbeam, slow and fast,

Straight and askew, and think a light breeze lulls

Or lifts them, altering how they appear

Inside the shaft that sometimes streaks the dark

That we devise with cunning, from our fear

Of day undimmed. And as we might remark

How harp and viol, strung with many chords

In harmony, touch us with their sweet chime,

Though we don’t catch the tune their sound affords—

For too much beauty does not give us time—   130

So from that light a melody emerged

Sent by the cross, to hold me there entranced,

Although the hymn’s full meaning, as it surged,

I mainly missed. But as the song advanced

I did perceive how plaudits formed its theme.

The words “Arise” and “Conquer” I picked out:

Piercing suggestions of a general scheme,

Sure hints of what it must be all about,

And I was moved to such love that till then

Nothing had bound me with so sweet a chain.   140

My bold words here might seem excessive when

It is remembered how with might and main

I lavished praises on my lady’s eyes,

In which all my desires achieve their rest,

But one who takes the time to realise

That those twin living seals, which so attest

To all of beauty, gained in strength with each

Ascent, and that in Mars I had not turned

To see them once again, will quickly reach

The sound decision that I might have earned   150

Exemption from reproof, having accused

Myself, and see that all I say is true,

For there the holy pleasure is diffused

Unchecked. Far from excluded, it pours through:

As we climbed higher, the more pure it grew.

CANTO 15

The will of grace—into which liquefies

Always the love that breathes in the right way,

As does cupidity, in its own guise,

Dissolve into ill will—now set the stay

Of silence on that sweet lyre, and made still

The sacred strings that Heaven renders taut

And loosens, with its right hand. When I fill

Their ears with my prayers that are justly wrought,

How can the souls be deaf, these spirits who,

To make me beg of them, with one accord   10

Fall dumb? His grief indeed is always new

That robs himself of love forever stored

Up there, and takes the love that cannot last.

As, through the still and cloudless evening sky,

Sometimes a sudden fire will run so fast

You’d think it were a star attracted by

The notion that it might change place—except

That where it came from no star has been lost

And only for a blink is this one kept,

Before, by vanishing, it pays the cost   20

Of its velocity—so from the horn

Of that cross, on the right, down to its base,

There streaked a single star abruptly born

Out of the splendid cluster there in place,

And this gem wasn’t from its ribbon torn:

Running across the radial strip it glowed

Like fire through alabaster. So the shade

Of great Anchises, carrying his load

Of fatherly affection, reached, and made

Himself known, to Aeneas, deep within   30

Elysium, and—if I may translate—

The shade, in Latin, said this to begin:

“My blood! The flow of God’s grace far too great

To measure! Who but you has ever seen,

A second time, the leaves of Heaven’s gate

Swing open?” Thus the light spoke. I had been

Fixed on it. Then I turned my eyes again

To my great lady, and was twice amazed:

By that speech first, and now by her face when

I saw her smiling eyes and how they blazed:   40

I thought I touched, with mine, my deepest grace

And paradise. The soul then added joy

To his first words with words I couldn’t place—

But still they gave delight, in his employ,

To sight and hearing—so deep was his speech.

Not from his choice, but from what had to be,

His meaning was concealed beyond my reach,

For his thought far outsoared mortality,

And when at last the bow of burning love

Relaxed enough to let his speech descend   50

To where the subject he was speaking of

Might fall within our scope to comprehend,

The first thing that I understood was: “Blessed

Be You, the Three-in-One, who, to my seed,

Show so much favour.” Then there was the rest:

“My son, it is a long and happy need—

Drawn from the reading of the mighty book

Whose black and white are never-changing things—

That you have satisfied here, when we look

Through this light and we speak: the light that sings   60

Out thanks to Him by whose will you are clad

For this high flight with your befitting wings.

You think that any thought you might have had

Comes down to me from Him, the Primal One,

Even as unity must radiate

All numbers, which go forth and get things done

As five, and six, but always illustrate

That first One. Thus you do not ask me who

I am, or why I seem the gladdest soul

Of all this happy throng. Well, good for you:   70

For your belief is right, and here the whole

Of what is thought comes back before you think

Out of the mirror. For both great and small,

This thing is true. But so that I may drink

To quench my sweet wish, satisfying all

The holy Love for which I stay alert

On constant watch, let your strong, fearless voice,

So full of joy and unafraid of hurt,

Sound forth the will to which I have no choice

Of answer, the desire I am ordained   80

To meet with my response.” And so I turned

To Beatrice, who without my speech had gained

My mind’s import, and smiled, a sign that burned

To make the wings grow on my will. I said:

“Love and Intelligence, after the First

Equality appeared to you, were led

Each to a poise where neither was dispersed

By the other, since the sun that lit and warmed

You both with even heat and light was so

Unbiased no imbalance can be formed.   90

In mortals, will and faculty don’t go

Together, for their wings have not the plumes

So equally arranged. I, as you know,

Am mortal. The discrepancy assumes,

In me, the form of feeling. I must give

My heartfelt thanks for your paternal vow

Of greeting. Tell me, topaz, as you live,

Gem of this precious jewel, your name.” “My bough,

Who made me joyful just by coming near,

I was your root.” His answer thus began,   100

And went on: “Know this much, now you are here:

We are connected, through a single man.

Around the hill a hundred years and more,

Down there on the first terrace, he has gone.

He was my son, and also he was your

Great-grandfather. His labours have gone on

A long time. It is fit you shorten them

With your good works. Your Florence, in those times,

Knew peace inside its ancient outward hem

Where still at nine and noon they hear the chimes.   110

But she was chaste then, flaunting not a gem—

No bracelet, no tiara, no fine gown

Rich with embroidery meant to be seen

More than the wearer warranted. The town

As yet lacked daughters certain to demean

A father with the fear they were too young

To marry, and the dowry was too high:

No house that still looked empty shared among

A family, or anyone to try

Outdoing Sardanapalus. Not yet   120

Did Rome give points to Florence on the rise,

As one day it will see that same sun set,

A fall worse than its own in its own eyes.

Gualdrada’s father, old Bellincion

Berti, in humble bone and leather clad,

I saw, and from the glass, with no paint on

Her face, his lady came. Good men were glad

To wear plain buff. Their women spun the flax.

Fortunate women! Then, they all knew where

They would be buried, home ground at their backs   130

And not the soil of exile. They were there—

Not elsewhere, with their husbands, loading sacks

Of gold in France. While one would tend the crib,

Soothing the new child with the baby talk

Father and mother love, mopping its bib,

Guarding her hatchling like a mother hawk,

Another, from the distaff drawing skeins,

Would tell the servants stories of how Troy,

Through Rome and then Fiesole, remains

Alive in Florence. We take little joy   140

Today in shameless women, or in men

Who are not honest, but in those days they

Would have been freaks. Such things were unknown then.

It would have been as if, the other way,

Great Romans such as Cincinnatus came

To us, or women like Cornelia.

To such a fair and civil life where fame

Was all for peace, the public life by far

More loyal, to so sweet a domicile

Mary consigned me when my mother called   150

Her name in pain, and in the ancient style

Of your old Baptistery I was installed

As Christian and as Cacciaguida both:

Brothers, Moronto and Eliseo.

The future wife to whom I pledged my troth?

Ferrara, in the valley of the Po

Bred her. Her family name lives in your stem,

For it was Alighieri. Currado

Joined France’s Louis and then I joined them

To go on the Crusade. The emperor   160

Made me a knight, so greatly did I earn

His favour as we battled that false law

Whose people, because our popes never learn,

Still rob you of your rightful Holy Land,

And there that foul breed disentangled me

From the deceitful world which has unmanned

So many souls for love of it. Set free

By martyrdom, I found the peace you see.”

CANTO 16

Our poor nobility of blood! If you

Move men to glory in you here below

Where our affections languish as they do,

It never will cause me to ask “How so?”

Since even there, where appetites run true,

Unwarped, in Heaven, I was brought to know

Glory in you. For truly you wore such

A mantle as will quickly shrink if not

Added to, day by day, at least as much

As time goes round to shear off what it’s got.   10

Thus with the plural “you”—once Rome’s polite touch

Of speech to honour Caesar, but which since

Has lapsed (the present Romans use it least,

No doubt because they think it would evince

Some small thought for the empire they have ceased

To pay allegiance to)—I spoke again,

And Beatrice, a little set apart,

Smiled at my honorific word, as when

The lady coughed to warn the hasty heart

Of Guinevere, and him that wooed her then,   20

That she knew their great secret. I spoke this:

“You are my father, you gave me the nerve

To speak, you lift me up so that I miss

No aspect of myself that goes to serve

The object of increasing me. My mind

Is filled with sheer joy by so many streams

That it rejoices further still to find

It bears up without bursting at the seams.

So tell me then, dear shade from which I stem,

Who were your ancestors? Your boyhood, how   30

Do you recall its years? Remember them

For me. And Florence, not as it is now,

But when it was the sheepfold of St. John,

How big was it? Which were the families

Deemed fit for the high seats that they sat on?”

As coal is quickened by the merest breeze

To flame, just so I saw that light take fire,

At my fond words, and as it grew more fair

In my sight, so I heard its voice acquire

Yet more the sweetness of a gentle air,   40

But not in new speech: from an older store.

“From that first Ave till the day that I

Was born, five hundred times and eighty more

Mars came back to the Lion in the sky

To be rekindled underneath its paw,

For two more years. And I was born, like all

My family members who had gone before,

Just where the runners reach the inner wall

In your games every year. Let it suffice

To hear this much about my forebears: who   50

They were and whence they came exacts a price

If spoken of. Silence will have to do:

Just say that they were old stock. All those there

Between the Baptistery and the Old Bridge

And of an age that they had arms to bear,

Beside those who now have that privilege

Were but a fifth, yet still the blood was pure

Even in humble artisans, who now

Reflect in every vein, you may be sure,

All the surrounding villages. Yes, how   60

Much better to have all those aliens

For neighbours, with their place outside your bounds,

Than face the knowledge of their teeming dens

Within your gates, enduring on your grounds

The stink of those two crooks from out of town,

Baldo and Fazio, both lawyers schooled

Elsewhere to skills in how to do you down.

One of those swine, who had the council fooled,

Kept you in exile. If the popes and priests—

They who fell furthest short of what they should   70

Have done—had not behaved like beasts,

Those cruel stepmothers to great Caesar could

Have been real mothers to a son. There’s one

Grand name I know up to his neck in trade

Who’d be back home where such stuff’s better done,

Although his grandfather went bankrupt, paid

In smaller coin. Pistoia’s main street still

Would own the castle that now Florence rules,

And not the Conte Guidi. Names that fill

The annals of our strife and leave dark pools   80

Of blood, might have remained in valleys far

Beyond our walls. Mixture of origin

Has brought us to the point where we now are,

Just as the body’s ills often begin

With bolted food. Remember how the bull,

Because too big, more easily will fall

Than any lamb which lives to keep its wool,

And that a single sword—what we might call

A symbol for a people unified—

Cuts better and cuts more than any five.   90

If you recall how other cities died

And others still are only just alive—

Luni and Urbisaglia are quite gone,

Chiusi and Senigallia, almost—

Then you’ll see nothing strange to dwell upon

At famous families giving up the ghost,

Since cities do the same. All your affairs

Will have their death in time, like you. But this

Fact is concealed in anything time spares

For any span, and our short lives might miss   100

Seeing the way it ends. Just as the shores

Are covered and uncovered by the moon

Without cease from her heaven, fortune pours

Its tides on Florence, which are just as soon

Withdrawn, a flux the living eye ignores,

But it occurs. It’s not a marvel, then,

That I can speak of the great Florentines

Whose names are faded now, forgotten men.

I could name famous names, but each name means

So little now, that once meant power and wealth.   110

Some were already in decline, but some

Had all the lustre, dominance and health

That they had always had. How could they come

To nothing? Come they did. Over the gate

Which bears today such an unheard-of load

Of perfidy it’s creaking with the weight

And soon must crack up like a barque tight stowed

With rotten grain, where now the Cerchi plot

Their infamies, the Ravignani dwelt,

And of their line came all those who were got   120

On daughters of Bellincion. Men knelt

Already to the della Pressa. From

The house of Galligaio shone the gold

Sword-hilt and pommel, knighthood’s burdensome

But proud insignia. Noble of old,

So long illustrious, they hang their shield

In exile now, the Ghibelline old guard.

The Pigli coat of green pale in red field

Was great, and all the bloodlines that die hard:

Sacchetti and Fifanti (he unreeled   130

A whole long honour roll) are scattered names

By now, but they were all together then:

Who now are embers once were living flames.

The stock of the Calfucci bred great men:

Sizii and Arrigucci, Guelphs all, sat

In seats of office. Here I saw them grand:

All the Uberti long since fallen flat

Because they heeded pride’s obsessed demand.

Chiaramontesi falsified the sale

Of salt by short weight. Lordly, rich in land,   140

Once they were bold, yet now you see them pale,

Blushing forever for one foolish hour.

The golden balls of the Lamberti shone

In Florence when that family had its power,

And now the clan of Mosca is all gone

Into the shadow. I saw the first flower

Of men whose sons seized every chance to leech

On vacant bishoprics and split the take.

The Adimari—honeyed in their speech

To him with teeth to bite and claws to rake,   150

Yet dragons at the back of him that flees—

The Adimari, bred to insolence

And on the rise already, did not please

Ubertino Donati, whose expense,

At marriage, turned out to include a link

Of shameful kinship with their paltry stock.

The Caponsacchi, come down from the brink

Of high Fiesole, had doors to lock

Already near the market. And mark this:

Giuda and Infangato were esteemed   160

As citizens. And here’s one you might miss

(Unless I told you, you would not have dreamed):

The inner gate was once named for the line

Of della Pera, and where are they now?

And Baron Hugh of Tuscany’s design

Of arms was one with which he would endow

All of his house since then until today,

When still the feast of Thomas signifies

His hour of death. The same coat’s proud display

Marks Giano della Bella, who denies   170

The rich the right to crush their underlings,

And turns his words to action. Just the edge

Of his shield differs: all the quarterings

Come down from that one source of patronage—

The Baron, still the captain of his tomb

In the Badia. The Borgo would have stayed

Quiescent, but the Amidei spelt doom

For Buondelmonte. A just price he paid

For jilting their dear daughter, but they spread

Their vengeance further, and so all the tears   180

You weep now sprang from that one watershed,

When that one house had honour. Many years

Of civil strife began there. Happiness,

For you, died then, with clans at daggers drawn.

Ah, Buondelmonte, if you’d listened less

To bad advice, and not held vows in scorn,

And not fled! Many men, since you first crossed

The Ema, on your way into our town,

Would now be glad and not in grief be lost

If God had pushed you into it to drown.   190

But it was fitting that the wasted stone

Of Mars that guards the bridge should see one last

Peace offering—a man cut down alone—

Before all that the city in the past

Had known of harmony was torn to bits.

It was with all these families and more—

I mention only those that time permits—

That I saw Florence as she was before,

In all her plenitude of joyful calm,

Her people glorious. Not once in war   200

The lily on her flag had come to harm,

Turned head to toe to show disgrace and spite,

Or changed in colour. When the Guelphs expelled

The Ghibellines, the lily turned from white

To red, to show the victors held

The field. It was our city. What a sight:

The flag of daylight changed to fly by night.”

CANTO 17

As Phaethon, when he heard that he was not

Apollo’s son, came in confusion to

His mother Clymene, from whom he got

Assurance that he was indeed the true

Heir to the god—and then he asked if he

Could drive the chariot for just one day,

Which led to such complete catastrophe

All fathers with ambitious sons will say

They were made wary by the memory—

Just so was I, and so I was esteemed   10

To be by Beatrice, and also by

The holy lamp that previously had seemed

To alter its position in the sky

Solely for my sake. Then my lady said:

“Put forth the flame of your desire, so it

May bear the mark of what lies in your head

And heart, the inner stamp that shapes to fit

The stuff that forms the sign, not just to swell

Our knowledge with your words, but to secure

The process yielding you a truth to tell   20

About your thirst, so that the draft so pure

May be poured out for you.” I spoke just so

To Cacciaguida. “Dearest plot of seed,

You that are raised so high that just as no

Mentalities on earth are not agreed

Two angles, and no fewer, are acute

In any triangle, so you, when you

Gaze at the point where light is absolute

And all times come together, see what’s true

Before it is, contingent things before   30

They are—when I and Virgil walked the hill

That heals the souls, and when we plumbed the core

Of that dead world where souls are always ill,

Grave words about my future life I heard—

Though I feel set four-square against the blows

Of chance, for if, before it has occurred

I know my fortune, all the anguish goes

From my desire, since it is met, just as

An arrow, when foreseen, more gently flies

Our way, as if what’s not yet happened has.”   40

Thus, speaking of my wish in the same wise

That Beatrice bade me, I addressed the light

That talked to me before. Not with the dark

Riddles by which fools tied their meaning tight

Before the Lamb of God undid that mark

Of sin he answered me, but in plain speech

And clear-cut terms—paternal love revealed

In words—he granted what he had to teach,

By his own smile both laid bare and concealed.

“Contingency, in your small world confined,   50

Is part of the Eternal Vision, yet

Does not derive, from that all-seeing mind,

Necessity. Think of the ship that met

Our eyes but later dropped downstream. From this

What lies in store for you in times to come

Comes to my eyes with the sweet synthesis

Of organ notes in their harmonic sum

Striking the ear. Just as Hippolytus,

When he staved off the cruel incestuous will

Of Phaedra, was cast out of Athens, thus   60

You will be sent from Florence. To fulfil

This aim—which is determined and contrived

In detail and will soon come true—there sits,

As pleased as if the moment had arrived

Already, him the papal crown now fits,

Proud in the hall where Christ is bought and sold

All day. Yes, Boniface. And, as it must,

The outcry of the common crowd will scold

The injured one. Though vengeance, to prove just

The truth that sends it, will come, you will leave   70

All that you love the best, which is the bolt

That exile’s bow shoots first. You will achieve

Full proof the bread of others tastes of salt,

And how all stairs are steep when they belong

To other men, to climb or to descend,

And what will weigh you down, however strong

Your shoulders, is the evil without end

Of all the senseless company you keep

In that sad valley into which you fall:

Ungrateful, raving even in their sleep   80

With fury aimed at you. Quite soon they all

Shall have red brows, not you. Their foolish deeds

Will prove their brute stupidity. That you

Are by yourself a party, one that needs

No other membership: that fact will do

You honour. Your first refuge, your first inn,

You’ll find by courtesy of that great stem

Of Lombards, the Scaligers. To begin

Your sojourn, you will meet the first of them,

Bartolomeo, with his family shield—   90

The ladder with the empire’s eagle spread

Above—held out for you, that it may yield

Protection. His regard will so be wed

With grace, that everything you two exchange

Of asking and of giving will be turned

The other way around: he will arrange

All that you need before you say so. Burned

From birth by this brand of a mighty star,

One you will see whose deeds will be renowned.

The people have not noted him so far:   100

For just nine years the wheels have circled round

His young head. But before Henry’s deceived

By Gascon Clement, this youth will show sparks

Of the heroic. It will be believed,

Even by enemies, this great dog barks

Against mere wealth, and his munificence

Will be part of his military fame.

Such generous bravery, sparing no expense,

You’ll learn to look for in his blazing name—

Can Grande della Scala. With his aid   110

Fortunes will change for many. Many rich

Will be brought low, and beggars raised in grade

To take their place, and these are all things which

You’ll carry written in your mind about

This great prince of Verona, but you can’t

Speak of them yet.” And then he spelled them out,

Things people will one day see, and yet shan’t

Believe their eyes. And then he added: “Son,

These are expansions on the several hints

You’ve had about the things that will be done   120

To you in just a few short years, which, since

They haven’t happened yet, are still, like snares,

Concealed where they lie waiting. And yet you

Should not, when you compare your fate with theirs,

Envy your neighbours. For the deeds they do

Their punishment will come, but far beyond

That date, your life will last.” The holy soul

Fell silent, having said this to respond

To my entreaty. So it was made whole,

The woven cloth of which I’d set the weft:   130

He’d put the woof into the web. Now I

Began again—I still had one doubt left—

Seeking from him, that I’d been counselled by,

The benefit of how he saw, and willed

And loved, all rightly. “Father, I see well

How time, that wants my destiny fulfilled,

Digs in the spurs and heads for me pell-mell

To deal the blow which falls with greatest weight

On him who heeds least. All the better, then,

That I am given power to see my fate   140

So that, if I may not come home again,

I shan’t lose other places by my songs.

Down through the world of endless bitterness

And on the fair hill where they purge their wrongs,

Up from the peak from which the eyes I bless

Of my dear lady lifted me to find

Light after light throughout these halls of good,

That journey forms a lesson in my mind

Which, should I tell it, would be sheer wormwood

To many. And if I prove, to the truth,   150

A timid friend, I fear to lose my name

Among all those who one day, in their youth,

Will call these old times.” Bright light turned to flame.

Inside, the smiling treasure I had found:

Outside, a golden mirror in the blaze

Of sunlight, saying “Conscience, I’ll be bound,

Shamed by its own or someone else’s ways,

Indeed will find your words harsh. Still you must

Put lies aside and make your vision plain,

And let those scratch who have an itchy crust,   160

Since if your voice, at first taste, gives them pain,

Yet it will nourish when it’s taken in.

For even as the wind, this cry of yours

Will strike the highest peaks, which is to win

No little honour. This has been the cause

That you’ve been shown, in these wheels here, and on

The mountain, and down in the woeful pit,

Only the souls that fame has fixed upon,

In order that the story you transmit

Will capture the attention of all those   170

Who recognise the names. For otherwise

They’d be shut out as if by doors that close

Ahead of them. The secret of surprise

Lies in a framework that we recognise.”

CANTO 18

Already that blessed mirror, in his thoughts,

Rejoiced alone. I was still tasting mine,

Striving to balance their contesting sorts,

The bitter and the sweet, while the divine

Lady conducting me to God on high

Said “Think again. Remember I am near

The One that all wrongs are made weightless by.”

My comfort’s loving voice, love I could hear,

Caused me to turn, and then I saw her eyes:

Love I could see, but whose full force must rest   10

Untold for now, because its power defies

The saying of it. I can’t pass the test

Of putting all that glory into speech,

And, also, memory jibs at the task

Of turning back beyond where it can reach

Without the One’s help. It’s too much to ask.

Yet, of that moment, this much I can tell:

I looked at her, and my heart was set free

Of all other desires. The light that fell

On her was the Eternal Joy. To me   20

It was reflected from her eyes so fair—

The Second Aspect of divinity,

It satisfied and overwhelmed me there

Through her smile. She said “Turn and listen now,

For Paradise is not just in my gaze.”

And as sometimes a human face shows how

The soul is seized by an emotion’s blaze,

Just so, in that burst of the holy fire

The sacred furnace towards which I turned,

I recognised the signs of his desire   30

To speak to me of more I’d not yet learned.

He spoke thus: “Here the tree, in its fifth hall—

The tree that lives top down, always in fruit,

Never to shed its leaves—is home to all

Those souls whose living fame was so acute

Before they came up here, poets grew rich

In praise from praising them. Regard, therefore,

The cross’s arms, and note the speed with which,

When I name names, each one will travel more

Swiftly than lightning through a cloud.” A light   40

Flashed through the cross to beat the spoken sound

Of Joshua’s name. Sound yielded to the sight

Of Maccabeus, brightly spinning round

While flying, like a child’s top whipped by joy.

Charlemagne and Roland drew my focused glance

Like falcons in their flight. Next to employ

That path across the cross came, not by chance,

William and Renouard, who both once slew

The Saracen, though Renouard was born

A Saracen himself. Duke Godfrey flew   50

The same route, the crusader who had worn

A king’s crown in Jerusalem. There, too,

Was Robert Guiscard, founder of the line

Of Normans in our south. These were the knights

Of Christian battle whose brave names still shine

For us today. And now, among their lights,

Shone Cacciaguida, who had said such things

To me, and now had gone to show his skill

At singing, there where everybody sings,

In that realm. On my right hand, Beatrice still   60

Stood waiting to say what my duties were

By word and sign. I saw her eyes so glad

And clear that her whole aspect spoke for her

Of even more delight now than she had

Displayed at any time, even the last,

And as a man delights in doing good,

Aware each day that this day has surpassed

The day before in virtue, so I could

Be certain, when I saw that miracle

More fair than ever, that my circling route   70

Around the heavens had become more full,

The radius making radiance more acute.

Just such a change as strikes the pale white face

Of a woman set free from a weight of shame

Now struck my eyes, as I took up my place

Inside the white light of the temperate flame

Of Jupiter, the sixth star. I saw there,

In Jove’s torch, the bright sparkle of the love

Consigned to trace our speech in vivid air

To our eyes, and, as birds that rise above   80

The river bank, well pleased at how they fed,

Are now a round flock, now some other form,

Just so those holy souls by song were led

Within their lights, shaping their shining swarm,

Each one so quick and vivid on its own,

To various figures as they flew, now D,

Now I, now L. First, singing each alone,

They sang their own notes. When combined to be

One of these shapes, however, then they paused

In silence. Ah, divine Calliope,   90

Muse-child of Pegasus, you that have caused

Glory in genius, as it has done

To cities and whole kingdoms, give me aid

With your light so that I may, one by one,

Describe these several figures as I made

Them out. For these lines, give me all you’ve got.

In five times seven verbs and consonants

They showed themselves. I noted all, and what

They seemed to mean as they combined to dance.

“Love justice” said the first words of the lot   100

(In Latin: I translate) that met my glance,

And “you that judge at home” was the last bold

Phrase written. In the fifth word shone an m

And it was silver all pricked out with gold,

And to the summit of this precious gem

Descended other lights, all it could hold,

And they sang of the Good attracting them

Into itself. Then, as rich sparks arise

In myriads when burning logs are struck—

Prompting crass auguries from the unwise—   110

So countless lights appeared to come unstuck

From there and float up, some the more, some less,

According to the impulse of the sun

That kindled them in this way to express

Its love, and when the whole design was done

With each spark settled, then I saw the head

And neck of a great eagle, all picked out

In fire. He that designs this can’t be said

To have a guide. He guides. We look about

And see a bird’s nest, and we know the force   120

That formed it is from Him. And now the rest

Of those blessed souls, which seemed to be on course

To gild a lily on the M, digressed—

Forgetting France or Florence as a source

Of empire, finding Rome was still the best—

And joined their friends in the heraldic scheme.

Sweet star, how many and how bright the jewels

Making it plain to me that all we deem

As earthly justice with its written rules

Is Heaven’s work, the sky in which you gleam!   130

Therefore I pray the Mind in which begin

Your movement and your power, that it regard

The place in Rome that makes the smoke wherein

Your beam is dimmed. High time to crack down hard

Once more on trade within the temple walls,

Put there by miracle and martyrdom.

Sky armies upon whom my vision falls,

Pray now for those on Earth, distracted from

The truth by ill example! Once it was

The custom to make war with swords, but now   140

It’s done by holding back the bread because

The ones denied that nourishment see how

It can be had again for coin, although

Sweet God decreed that none should be deprived

Of sacraments. But you that traffic so,

Giovanni, you that, grasping, have contrived

To sell indulgences for ready cash,

Take thought of Peter and of Paul, who died

To plant the vineyard that you turn to trash:

They are alive. You might say, in your pride,   150

“I know them not, for I have set my mind

On him who lived alone till Salome

Danced him to bloody death, and whom you’ll find

Depicted on the florin. That’s the way

Ahead for me, and for the Church today.”

CANTO 19

With open wings, the lovely image reared

Before me: those collected spirits, glad

In sweet fruition. Each of them appeared

To be a little ruby the sun had

Instilled with such a flame the light was thrown

Back to my eyes. And all that I have now

To tell, was never yet by tongue made known,

Nor put in ink. No fancy has known how

Even to think of it. I saw and heard

The beak talk, saying “I” and “mine” for “we”   10

And “ours,” so lending one voice to each word.

“For being pure and kind I come to be

Exalted here to glory unsurpassed

By any worldly wish, and on the earth

I left behind, such memories now last

That even wicked men concede the worth

Of what I did, though they don’t do the same.”

In just the way we feel a single glow

From many brands, out of that image came

A single sound that many loves made so.   20

And then I: “Everlasting flowers of bliss

Eternal, who make all your perfumes seem

To me but one, when you breathe forth like this

You save me from the fast no feasts redeem

On Earth, of which my hunger was the proof.

I know that though a mirror for Divine

Justice takes fire beneath another roof

Of Heaven, none the less you see it shine

Without a veil. You must know how intent

I am on listening: you know the doubt   30

I hungered from so long, and what it meant.”

Just as the falcon moves its head about,

Freed from its hood, and once more flaps its wings

To show how keen it is, and dips its beak

To preen its feathers, so I saw these things

Echoed by that sign getting set to speak,

Combining all the songs that those up there

Rejoice in. “He that compassed all the bounds

Of this world—and, in it, made some things bare

To sight and others hid, so it astounds   40

With its variety—could not impress

His Power thus throughout the universe

Without his Word, in infinite excess,

Remaining, and this truth we can rehearse

By thinking of the fate of Lucifer,

That first proud spirit, highest of the high,

And how, before his ripeness could occur,

He fell the day he could no longer fly,

Because he had not waited for the light,

The Word of God. From which it follows, all   50

The lesser natures at a lower height

Are too slight vessels for the flood we call

The Good, which has no limits we can find,

And only by itself is measured. Thus

Our vision is but one ray of the Mind

That fills all things, and it is not for us

To blink the fact that our sight’s origin

Lies far beyond the furthest we can see,

And so the power of eyesight working in

Your world may pierce the sheer infinity   60

Of Everlasting Justice only as

The eye into the sea, whose bottom shows

Near shore, but in the open deep it has

No bottom to be seen, though the mind knows

Depth has concealed the truth. All light must come

From clear unclouded sky. Else, darkness reigns,

The shadow of the flesh, which is the sum

Of all its sensual errors and dark stains.

But now the place is opened up to you

Which hid the Living Justice you have sought   70

So often, saying ‘What good does it do

For some man born in India who’s taught

Nothing of Christ by speech or text, and yet

All his desires and deeds, with virtue filled,

In life or speech show nothing to upset

Our human reason. With not one sin willed,

Outside the faith and unbaptized he dies.

Where is the justice that condemns him? Where

Is this man’s fault?’ But who are you, whose eyes

Would judge across a thousand miles of air   80

From your small bench with short sight? Yes, we could

Dispute the issue, you and I, and were

No scriptures set above you, then there would

Be ample room to cavil and demur,

As if your questions counted. Clods of earth!

Mud brains! Nothing can move the Primal Will.

Good is itself, draws from itself all worth:

Whatever meets that mark can do no ill

And must be just. And no good that is made

Can draw it in, because its blazing rays   90

Create that good as well, and are displayed

In all it makes, and all that meets our gaze.”

Just like the circling stork above the nest

Where she has fed her young, and the one fed

Looks up to her, so I below the blessed

And lofty image as its bright wings, led

By many counsels, moved to make it wheel.

It sang, then spoke to me. “The notes I sing

That you can’t follow but whose truth you feel,

Show you the Holy Word is everything,   100

To mortals, that they cannot comprehend

About Eternal Judgement.” Then they paused,

Those scintillating fires without an end,

Sparks of the Holy Ghost, the sign that caused

The world to hail the Romans still their frame—

Which then began again. “None ever rose

To this realm who did not revere the name

Of Christ, either before the doom He chose

Or after it. The tree, the nails, the death:

These they believed. But some who cry Christ! Christ!   110

Will be less near to Him at their last breath

Than many others who do not know Christ.

Even the Ethiope shall then condemn

Such false Christians, when those two companies

Are parted so there’s no more joining them,

The rich and poor, forever. Infamies

Of your kings will be in the open book.

What will the Persians say when they see writ,

Among the deeds of Albert, how he took

The realm of Prague from Wenceslas, and it    120

Was ruined? And the misery shall be seen

Brought to the Seine by Philip when he tore

The value from the coin, stripping it clean

Of worth, and he himself killed by a boar

He hunted. Also will be seen the pride

That maddens men with thirst, so that the Scot

And Englishman can’t keep to their own side

Of the drawn line, but think that what they’ve got

Is nothing without what the other holds.

And it will show the way the King of Spain   130

Was lost to lust and luxury’s soft folds,

And that Bohemia shrank from the reign

Of one who knew no worth nor sought it out.

And crippled Charles of Anjou, for his one

Real virtue, liberality, no doubt

Will get a mark, but the evils he has done

A thousand marks. The avarice of him

In Sicily, and also his faint heart,

Will there be shown in words no eye can skim,

For they will be abbreviated, part   140

Serving for whole, so as to fit the news

In a small space. And all the dreadful deeds

Of that same Frederick’s uncle will accuse

Themselves in that book, for whoever reads.

His brother, too, will be accounted for:

A pack by whom a noble lineage

Has been dragged through the mud, and what is more—

And here alone is text for a whole page—

Two crowns have been besmirched. And Portugal

And Norway too will have kings named. And he   150

Of Serbia, who forged the means to call

A lead plug a Venetian ducat. We

May cry ‘Ah, happy Hungary!’ now that

No longer she connives at her own wrong.

Happy Navarre, were she not aiming at

Abject surrender to the siren song

Of a dynastic marriage. Let her trust

In her surrounding mountains, and be warned

By Cyprus, whose twin cities sadly must

Live with the loose French ruler they once scorned—   160

And pray for a new day, which has not dawned.”

CANTO 20

When he that lights the whole world sinks from sight

Out of our hemisphere, so that the day

Is spent on all sides, sky concedes to night—

Sky that was lit by him alone gives way

To many lights, all shining with his light.

This scattering in the sky came to my mind

When the world’s flag, and flag of all its kings,

Fell silent in its beak, for me to find

That all its shining points, those living things,

Shone still more brightly, and a river flowed   10

Of songs I cannot now recall. Sweet love

Mantled in smiles, how brilliantly you showed

Yourself in those flutes as they soared above,

Filled with the breath of holy thoughts that glowed!

After the lucid, precious gems with which

The sixth realm was bejewelled had chimed their last,

I seemed to hear a mountain streamlet switch

Its murmuring path from rock to rock, not fast

But falling, softly, proving full the source

It came from, high up; and as sound takes form   20

At the lute’s frets, and as breath shapes its force

At the pipe’s vent, so, rising through the swarm

Of lights that made the neck, the murmur welled

As if the throat were hollow. I was kept

Waiting no longer. Clear words were expelled,

Awaited words. Out of the beak they swept,

These words that I’d longed for, and now wrote down.

“That part with which a mortal eagle sees

And turns towards the sun without a frown,

Watch now in me. From fires of all degrees   30

My shape is made, and those that make the eye

That sparkles in my head outrank the rest.

The one the shining pupil is made by

Is he who brought the ark home like a guest

While always singing of the Holy Ghost.

Now David knows the burden of that song,

As he conceived it, was no idle boast,

Because the recompense is rich and long

For his wise counsel. Of the five who make

My eyebrow’s arch, the nearest to my beak   40

Is Trajan, who joined in the widow’s wake

For her son. Now he knows how life is bleak

Without Christ, for he’s seen the difference,

Having been pagan once, and later saved.

Next on the upward curve of eminence

Above my eye, Hezekiah shines, who craved

More time, and his repentance helped him there,

For what he asked Isaiah he obtained—

A long life, and now life beyond compare.

And next comes Constantine, the one that reigned   50

In Rome, and who meant well by moving east

And turning Greek with me and all the laws,

And one good thing came out of it at least:

There was no harm for him, although his cause,

That made the Pope a king, only increased

The chaos in the world. His crop we reap.

William you see next on the downward curve,

For whom now Sicily and Naples weep,

As living Charles and Frederick show they serve

Themselves: but how the power of love runs deep   60

Up here for the just king, is proved to us

By his face spilling fire. Who would have guessed,

In the erring world below, that Ripheus

Of Troy would be the fifth light in this crest?

The sea of Grace the world finds a deep thing

He sees through now, though not down the whole way.”

Just as the soaring lark at first will sing

And then fall silent, by its latest play

Of sweetness satisfied, that image seemed

To me. It was the imprint of the Will   70

Of the Eternal Pleasure, which has deemed

That all which was, and is, and will be still,

Might be. As glass is to its coloured coat

I was to my perplexity, and yet

My question would not wait to play a note,

But weight and pressure forced it from the set

Of my lips. “How can these things be?” I said,

And then I saw a sudden festival

Of lights, and then the bright eye in its head

Flashed still more, as the sign replied, lest all   80

My stunned suspense continue. “If you think

These things are true because I say them, yet

You can’t see how they can be, so they sink

From sight although believed, then all you get

From anything is just its name: the pith

Of that thing is withheld from you, unless

It’s all set out for you to conjure with.

For Heaven’s Kingdom suffers, and will bless,

Violence of vivid love and hope on fire,

Which conquer the Divine Will not as man   90

May conquer man, but out of its desire

Thus to be conquered, and because its plan

Is conquest through its goodness. Yes, the first

And fifth stars of my eyebrow puzzle you

To see the realm of angels thus imbursed.

But here and now you should revise your view

That they were unbelievers when they left

Their bodies. They were Christians, of firm faith,

One that the dear Feet would be nailed and cleft,

The other that they were. Trajan, a wraith,   100

Came out of Hell to find his bones again,

And since none there are saved by willing good,

This was the prize for that saint among men,

Pope Gregory, whose prayers were understood

And helped by God, so that one damned might then

Be raised to where his will could be so moved.

This glorious soul, returned thus to the flesh

For a short time, believed in Him that proved

Able to intercede. Love flared afresh

From that belief. The emperor lived to face   110

His next death, and came here to us. And now

Regard the Trojan, saved by God’s good grace

Whose fountain goes so deep no one knows how

To see down to its wellspring, its first place,

And yet he came to love the right, his eyes

Opened by God from grace to grace, to our

Future Redemption. Truth that never dies

He found, and so, believing in its power,

He spurned the stench of paganism from

That day, scolding the people in its spell   120

For their perversity. His baptism

A thousand years too soon? That task befell

Three ladies you saw near the gospel car

At its right wheel: Faith, Hope and Love. Your root,

Predestination, how it stands so far

From that gaze—gaze no matter how acute—

Which sees in parts but can’t see how they are

United in the First Cause! Mortals, be

Restrained in judging. We, who see God, know

Not all of the elect as yet, and we   130

Find the lack sweet, our good perfected so

By His. We will what God wills, willingly.”

Thus from the image I got medicine

Sweetly to clear the shortness of my view,

And as a good guitarist will bring in

The notes of trembling strings to make more true

The singer’s melody, whereby the song

Grows sweeter still, so, while it spoke, the paired

Exalted lights kept time and played along,

Like eyes that blinked together and then flared   140

Their little flames, moved by the words they shared.

CANTO 21

Already with my eyes fixed on her face

Again—and, with my eyes, my mind,

Which had no thoughts of any other place—

My lady did not smile, but, to be kind,

She said, “Were I to smile, you would become

Like Semele when she was turned to ash

By Jupiter, her lover, in his sum

Of splendour unadorned. It would be rash:

My beauty, which you’ve seen increase the higher

We climb together on the lofty stairs   10

Of this eternal palace, is a fire

So brilliant that the strength your body bears

Would be, if mine were not restrained, a bough

Split by a thunderbolt. Here we arise

To Saturn, seventh splendour, which is now

Close under Leo’s burning breast, a guise

In which the planet sends down mingled rays

With extra powers. So now, behind your eyes,

Let your mind make them mirrors for the blaze

Of that shape which will now appear to you.”   20

Great was the joy I took from seeing her,

But when she made me look at something new

The joy was greater still: I could defer

To her desires and could remember too

I had beheld her, so the scale-pans were

Poised in the balance. Bearing the great name

Of that chief who killed off all wickedness

In Crete, and gave the Golden Age its fame,

The crystal Saturn ringed the world. No less

Than gold in sunlight flashed a ladder there,   30

Rising so far its top rungs fled my sight.

Descending it were splendours past compare

And so past counting I thought every light

In heaven had been poured out through the air:

And as the jackdaws, when they rise at dawn

Together, by their natural habit sent

To warm cold feathers, split up, with some drawn

Away not to return from where they went,

And some turn back to where they started from,

And some stay wheeling, so it seemed to me   40

Such movements took place in the maelstrom

Of lights arriving scintillatingly

On any given step. The one that paused

Closest to us became so bright, I said

In my mind: “I see well what love has caused

Your signal.” But from her by whom I’m led

To speak or else keep silent, there came not

A word, so that, against my will, I made

No query. She, aware the cat had got

My tongue because I’d seen One who displayed   50

The signs of seeing everything, spoke thus:

“Now satisfy your keen desire.” And I:

“I’m far from being meritorious

Enough to hear your answer, but I’ll try—

For her sake who grants me the leave to ask

The question—to be worthy in the way

I frame it. Let due reverence be my task.

Blessed living soul, still hidden in the spray

Of light which is your happiness, what brings

You near me, and how is it, in this wheel,   60

Heaven’s sweet symphony no longer sings,

Which filled the air with such divine appeal

In all the wheels below?” “The way you hear,”

He said, “is, like the way you see, earthbound.

If you, a mortal, were touched by the sheer

Perfection of the music, then the sound

Would do to you what one look at a smile

From Beatrice would. Therefore I have come down

The sacred staircase for a little while

And just this far, still mantled in my gown   70

Of light, to welcome you with naught but speech.

Nor was it greater love that sped me on

(For just such love and more is felt by each

And all of those above me: look upon

Their flames) but the high Charity which makes

Us prompt in service of the Counsel’s will

That makes the world, and freely gives and takes,

As you can see.” This while I looked my fill.

“I see indeed,” I said, “my sacred lamp.

I see how love, set free, serves in this court   80

For the fulfilment and the final stamp

Of the Eternal Providence. One thought,

However, still confounds me. Why you? How

Were you cut out, to get this labour done,

From all your fellows?” I can see it now:

The speed with which, before I’d said those last

Words of my speech, the light began to spin,

Its axis the smooth axle of a fast

Mill wheel. And then the love that was within

Replied. “Focused on me, a light divine   90

Pierces this glow in which I am encased.

Its virtue, joined to what I may call mine

Of vision, raises me, from where I’m placed,

So far above myself that the Supreme

Essence I see from where it emanates.

From this the joy that forms my fiery beam,

Since to my sight, by perfect estimates

Of clear view, I make that of my own flame.

But not a soul in Heaven, even the most

Alight—no seraph, of whatever name—   100

Whose eye, of all the highest heavenly host

Is closest fixed on God, will satisfy

Your question. What you ask is far removed

In those high depths of the abyssal sky

Where the Eternal Ordinance has proved

Itself cut off from every vision which

Had been created. In the mortal world,

When you return, make your recounting rich

With this news, so men may no more be hurled

Into futility by setting foot   110

On such a path, to such an end. The mind

Which shines here, smokes on Earth, and therefore put

Your thoughts to just how, down there, it may find

The means by which it ever could achieve

That which it can’t up here.” Checked by his words

That scorned a subject it was time to leave,

I only asked him who he was. “The birds

Can’t soar to where I came from. Thunder claps

Below. Quite near your birthplace, plumb between

The shores of Italy, a ridge-line caps   120

The range with crags sharp as you’ve never seen.

That’s Catria. There in the Apennines,

Beneath the ridge, a hermitage once was

To worship, in all true forms and designs,

Entirely given, praise its only cause.”

So he began again for the third time.

Then more: “There I became, seeing the Lord,

So constant, that with thoughts on the sublime,

I passed through heat and frost, my bed and board

Poor stuff, thin scraps eked out with oil   130

Of olives. Yet I was content. The yield

Of prayer to Heaven from that spot of soil—

A cloister doing duty for a field—

Once ached for harvest. But it now lies waste:

Soon everyone will know. My name when there

Was Peter Damian, and when displaced

And made a cardinal, shame and despair

Led me to give myself another style:

Peter the Sinner, for my lasting care

Was purity, and power made it vile.   140

Corruption ruled us even as we reigned

On our high chairs, low down and out of touch

With those dear peaks which in my mind remained

The fortress of frugality. Not much

Of mortal life was left to me when they,

There in Ravenna, dragged me to that hat

Which gets passed on in a progressive way—

From bad to worse. By now we’re used to that.

There was a time when Peter and Paul both

Were hard and barefoot, eating humble food   150

At ordinary inns, and nothing loth:

But modern shepherds find such rigour crude.

A pope now needs a man each side to prop

Him up, and one before to clear his trail,

With one behind his awesome bulk to stop

His train from dragging. If his legs should fail

To hold him up, he rides: his cloak will flop

Around two beasts with one skin. Patience, can

You stand all this?” And at his cry, I saw

More little flames come down as they began,   160

Wheeling, from step to step, and they were more

Lovely with every spin. They swarmed around

His light, and stopped, and then they cried aloud:

So loudly that down there on our home ground

Nothing could equal it, a shouting cloud

Of clear lights, and I couldn’t understand—

By such sweet thunder deafened and unmanned.

CANTO 22

Still stunned, I turned back to my guide, just as

A child, when scared, will run back to the place

Where confidence resides, the voice that has

The gift of reassurance, the one face

Of comfort for a pale and breathless boy—

His mother. She said “How can you not tell

You are in holy Heaven? All the joy,

All that is done here comes from the true well

Of zeal, and so you’ve seen the truth appear

Of how that song, and my smile, would have stirred   10

Your brains, because the truth was in that cry

Which so much moved you, and if you had heard

And understood the prayers within it, why,

You’d know already how the prelates will

Suffer a fate you’ll see before you die.

Up here, God’s vengeful sword does not fulfil

Its task too early or too late, except

As it might seem to him who, with desire

Or fear, awaits the blow, the promise kept.

But turn now to the others in the choir   20

That raised the shout, and if you aim your gaze

As I say, countless spirits you will see.”

I did her bidding and I saw the rays,

Criss-crossing, of a multiplicity

Of little spheres, a hundred of them, all

Made still more beautiful by their shared beams—

A light-stream interplay, a mirror hall

For fireflies. I stood as one who deems

The prick of wishing must be checked, for fear

He’ll seem presumptuous if he should pose   30

A question. So it was that there drew near

The largest and most lustrous of all those

Shivering pearls, intent that I should hear

My inner question answered. Then the light

Unfolded its own nature from within.

“If you could only share my power of sight

You’d see the love we burn in, and begin

To say what’s on your mind, but since you might

Be slowed down on your high path if you wait,

I’ll answer now the thought you closely guard.   40

The mountain where Cassino has its gate

Was once thronged, on its summit high and hard,

By people both deluded and deceived,

And I was first to bring the name up there

Of Him who brought to Earth, to be believed,

The truth that sublimates us; and so fair

A grace shone down upon me that I drew

The nearby towns away from their old cult

Of worshipping Apollo as the true

And only God, in which they would exult   50

As once the whole world did. These other flames

Were all contemplatives, fired by that heat

That brings forth holy flowers and fruit. Their names?

Macarius, and all my brothers. Meet

The ones who kept their feet and steadfast hearts

Within the cloister.” I to him: “You’ve shown

Affection in your speech, and all the arts

Of kindness, and your fires reflect your tone.

My confidence expands just as the sun

Unfolds the rose into its fullest bloom.   60

And so I ask you—if it may be done

To grant the gift, and I do not assume

Too much in asking—that I may for one

Moment see you with face unveiled.” And he:

“Brother, your high desire shall be fulfilled

Above in the last sphere: for you, and me,

The end point of all wishes. All are stilled,

Our long desires. They’re perfect, ripe and whole.

Up there alone each part is what it was

Always, for that place turns around no pole:   70

It’s not in space. You see, then, by what cause

Our ladder, going up to it, must climb

Out of your sight. Jacob the patriarch

Saw to the hidden top in the sublime

And saw it packed with angels. That high mark

None lifts a foot to reach now, and my Rule

Merely wastes paper. Those walls that were once

An abbey are now thieves’ dens. A whole school

Of cowls are sacks of spoiled grain. Nothing affronts

God’s pleasure—even usury at its worst—   80

So much as when the monks skim from the flow

Of income from the faithful. Such a thirst

Turns fruit to folly. Surely they must know

All the Church has belongs to those who seek

In God’s name, not for kin or cronies. So

Soft is the flesh of mortals, and so weak,

A good beginning made below does not

Last from the oak’s birth to the first acorn.

No silver and no gold had Peter got

When he began his order. Mine was born   90

With prayer and fasting. Francis founded his

With mere humility. And if you look

At what each was, and then at what it is—

Where it has strayed from its first open book—

You’ll see white turning dark. Nevertheless

The Red Sea gaped, and Jordan was rolled back

By God’s will to annul the helplessness

Of Israel’s children on the long, hard track

That led to safety. Those were strange events

Down there, but here such succour’s everywhere   100

And nothing marvellous. Common, in a sense.”

Having thus spoken, Benedict left us there,

Withdrawing to his company, which drew

Together, pressing close. Then they were swept

Quickly above as if a whirlwind blew.

With just a sign, my dear sweet lady kept

Me climbing after them, so much her force

Conquered my nature, and here in the world

Where natural law will always take its course

To govern how we climb, none has been hurled   110

Aloft as I was, with so swift a flight.

Reader, as I hope one day to return

To that pure triumph for which, in the night,

I beat my breast until my knuckles burn

With sorrow for my sins, you could not snatch

The finger from the fire that you pushed in

More quickly than the sign that tries to catch

The Bull, which is the Twins—wherein begin

Learning and intellect—was there before

My eyes, and then around me. Stars in flame   120

With glory, light filled to its pregnant core

With power that drives what I have to my name

Of genius, with you the sun, each May,

Arises, father of each mortal born,

And so sets. Twins, it was when you held sway

That I first tasted the sweet Tuscan dawn,

And later on, when I was granted grace

To enter the high wheel that bears you round,

Your region was my designated place.

To you my soul now utters the profound   130

Sigh of devotion. May the strength be mine

To make the big step that I now must face

Of being drawn towards itself. The sign

Could not be more propitious. “You’re so near

To final blessedness,” Beatrice began,

“That you must have your eyes both keen and clear,

And so, before you go—and now you can—

Yet further into it, look down and see

How much already of the universe

Is underneath your feet, put there by me,   140

So that your heart be ready to disburse

Its full joy when at last it meets the Host

Triumphant, as it comes rejoicing through

This rounded ether.” With my sight I went

Back down through all the seven spheres anew

And saw the globe, the start of my ascent,

And smiled at its pipsqueak significance.

Whoever has his mind on other things

Can be called just: it’s scarcely worth a glance.

I call his judgement best who never clings   150

To its importance, rating it the least

Of realms. I saw the moon’s clean other side:

Diana with her lovely glow increased,

Being without the shadow from which I’d

Believed her, once, to be both rare and dense.

I saw the Sun, son of Hyperion,

In full flame, unrelentingly intense,

And Maia’s daughter, Mercury, sailed on;

And Venus, too, Dione’s daughter, moved

Close to the sun. Their circles copied his.   160

All of the spheres were there. I saw it proved

From this, that Jupiter’s condition is

Forever to create a tempered blend:

The heat of his son Mars mixed with the cold

Of Saturn, still his father. Without end

The seven change position as they hold

Their places. I could see this, and their size

And speed, and all their distances between

Each other. And this paltry world we prize,

This little threshing floor where we have been   170

Always so fierce, was made plain from its hills

To river mouths, while I was wheeling there

With those eternal Twins. They turned like mills,

And I with them, the universe laid bare.

And then my eyes met hers, my lady fair.

CANTO 23

Just as the bird that in the branches sings—

Branches she loves, the source of her delight,

The nest of her sweet brood with flightless wings

Where she has sat in vigil through the night

That hides things from us—stays put till time brings

The moment, blessed if only for their sake,

When, on the open spray, she’ll once more see

Their longed-for looks, and find the food to make

Them grow, the work she welcomes heartily,

Singing, with all her wishes wide awake,   10

Until dawn breaks, just so my lady stood

Erect, alert, and turned towards that part,

The zenith, where the sun slows. Thus I could

See the suspense and longing in her heart,

And I became as one moved by desire,

Hope satisfied. But the interval was short

Between expectancy and the first fire

That set the sky alight beyond all thought:

First clear, then bright, then blazing. Beatrice said:

“Behold the hosts of Christ in triumph! Hail   20

The blessed, the fruit that has been harvested

From all the wheeling spheres which never fail

To give the striving soul its just reward!”

It seemed to me her face was all in flame,

Her eyes too full of gladness to afford

My words the chance to give her joy a name.

As, in clear nights that show us the full moon,

Diana smiles among the nymphs that dance

Forever, always decking, late and soon,

The sky through all its depths, just so my glance   30

Was drawn beyond a thousand lamps to meet

A sun which kindled all of them the way

Ours does with every pinpoint that might meet

Our eyes when we look up at the display

Of stars, and, streaming through the living light,

The vital substance which is Christ was more

Than my eyes—for it was so very bright—

Could bear. Ah, Beatrice! More now than before

My dear, sweet guide! “What overwhelms you now,”

She said, “is power beyond all defence.   40

Here is the might and wisdom that knew how

To open up the roads through the immense

Distance dividing Heaven from the Earth,

An age-old dream.” As fire breaks from a cloud,

Swelling until it seeks a path for birth,

And falls towards the ground although endowed

Not with that nature, my mind, at that feast

Grown greater, left itself, and what became

Of it, it can’t recall now in the least.

“Open your eyes and see me not in name   50

But as I am,” she said. “You’ve gained the strength,

From what you’ve seen, to bear my smile.” As he

Awaking from a dream may seek at length

In vain to recollect it, so with me,

Hearing this invitation. All the past

Is in a book, and how my thanks were great

Can never now, from this day to the last,

Be blotted out. Such was my blessed state,

If all the tongues that Polyhymnia

And her Muse sisters fed with milk so sweet   60

Should sound to aid me now, I would by far—

A thousandfold—fall short of means to meet

The truth in singing of the holy smile

And how that smile lit up the holy face,

And so, to picture heaven in fit style,

This sacred poem, as one leaps the place

That breaks one’s path, must cease a little while

To match the facts. But he who gives due heed

To this theme’s weight, the human shoulder frail

That’s burdened with it like a trembling reed,   70

Will blame me less if I appear to fail.

No easy passage for a little barque,

This is a sea a daring prow must cleave,

Steered by a pilot who would make his mark

With no thought for his comfort, no reprieve.

“Why does my face beguile you,” Beatrice said,

“So much you do not turn towards the fair

Garden that flowers in the sunrays shed

By Christ? You’ll find his mother Mary there,

The Sacred Rose, the Holy Word made flesh.   80

There are the lilies, the apostles who

Gave out the fragrance that made sweet and fresh

The good path. This is what you’re coming to.”

She spoke, and I, so keen for her advice,

Struggled to fix my eyelids on the task,

Weak though they were. But it was worth the price.

As I once saw a field of flowers bask

In sunlight streaming through a broken cloud—

Saw them with shaded eyes—so now I saw

Whole hosts of splendour, crowd on sainted crowd,   90

Flash in the brilliant light that seemed to pour

From on high, though I couldn’t see its source.

Ah, gracious might that sets your stamp upon

Them all, you climbed to grant scope by your force

To eyes that had no strength for you. As on

The very greatest of those fires I gazed—

Mary, I mean—the name of that fair flower

Which I invoke each morning to be praised,

And in the evening too, took all the power

Of my mind to behold it as it blazed,   100

And when I pictured the intense extent

And quality of that star in my eyes—

The star surpassing all those who were sent

To be up there, as she in worldly guise

Surpassed all those below—I saw a brand

Descend the sky, and, once it had come down,

Draw circles which I came to understand

As being in the likeness of a crown

Spun for her lovely head. Down here below,

Whatever melody, though it be sweet   110

Enough to draw the soul into its flow

And drown there with all earthly dreams complete,

Would seem, compared to that lyre’s perfect sound

Like thunder in the clouds. But why compare?

This was the melody with which was crowned

The sapphire that made sapphire all the air,

The bright blue sky. “I spin angelic love

Around the joy supreme,” sang Gabriel,

“Which breathes from that womb, seeded from above,

That sheltered what we all desired so well,   120

Both men and angels; and this I will do

Lady of Heaven, till you reach your Son,

Ascending in His path until you, too,

Are in the highest sphere. This will be done.”

And so the circling song came to a close,

And all the other lights sang out as one

The name of Mary. Then, as she arose,

The royal cloak, the Primum Mobile,

The sphere that burns the most of any sphere

That spins around the world, was far away,   130

So far its inner rim did not appear

To my sight even yet—which is to say

The breath of God and His works, far from near,

Seemed nowhere—so I could not follow her

With my eyes as she soared towards the seed:

Her light-crowned flame had left us where we were.

Just as an infant, having slaked its need

For milk, still stretches out its little arms

To mother, while its inner impulse flares

To outward flame in its beseeching palms,   140

So these white radiant beings reached above

Themselves with all their fire, and it was plain

To me how each one felt the deepest love

For Mary as they sang the sweet refrain

Regina Coeli, Queen of Heaven. So

Sweet was their song that it is with me still

As always. Ah, how great the goodly store

In these rich gatherers! They had the will

To sow the seed when they were here before,

And there they live in all the wealth they earned,   150

Rejoicing in it, everything they won

With tears in their long exile, where they spurned

The gold of Babylon. Under the Son

Of God and Mary, Peter reigns in all

The triumph of his victory. The school

Of all the saints whose names we might recall

From either testament approves his rule,

Of which the keys to glory are the sign

His office is eternal and divine.

CANTO 24

Then Beatrice said: “O fellowship elect

To that great supper of the blessed Lamb

Who feeds you so that no desire is checked

But always satisfied, know that I am

In charge of this man who by God’s grace has

Foretaste of that which from your table falls

Before the fatal time appointed as

His day of death. Give heed to how he calls

In hunger without measure. Give him dew,

If only a few drops, you that may drink   10

Deep from the fountain he aspires to,

That flow of which he cannot cease to think.”

And then I saw the happy spirits flock

In circles on fixed poles, flaring as bright

As comets, and, as wheels inside a clock

Revolve so that it seems the first wheel might

Be stock-still while the last wheel seems to fly,

Just so these choirs at different speeds, some slow,

Some quick, expressed the same resolve that I

Should gauge the wealth that they had put on show.   20

And from the richest one, I saw shoot out

A fire so joyful that none other shone

More brightly, and it wheeled three times about

My Beatrice with a song—I can’t go on—

Divine beyond what my words can evoke,

And so my pen lifts, all its powers gone,

And I write nothing suitable. This cloak

Had folds too subtle for my pigments. Bold

Colours cannot paint shades that lie within

The indentations fine draped cloth may hold,   30

And this flame’s plainsong was no less rich in

Its intricacy. The song’s words went so:

“My holy sister who has prayed to us

So piously, it’s by the melting glow

Of your affection you detach me thus

From that fair circle.” She then: “O

Eternal light of the great soul to whom

Our Lord entrusted the twin holy keys

Which he brought down to give us the full bloom

Of all this glad amazement, may it please   40

You now to test this man with points both light

And grave, as you see fit, pertaining to

The faith by which you walked, at your full height,

Upon the water. Whether his love is true

And whether his hopes and his beliefs are right—

These outcomes have all been foretold by you,

There where all things are seen depicted. Yet,

Since in this kingdom citizens are made

By the true faith, let’s try not to forget

The higher justice stands to be betrayed   50

Should he not speak of this faith, which will be,

By his words, glorified.” In the same way

The bachelor, when seeking a degree

By viva voce, guards what he will say

Until the master puts the question he

Will argue but not settle, so I armed

Myself with all my reasons while she spoke,

To be prepared and therefore less alarmed

By such a questioner, and not to choke

Through awe of his profession. “Christian, speak.   60

Declare yourself, and tell me what faith is.”

At this I lifted up my brow to seek

The light which breathed these sudden words of his,

Then turned to Beatrice, who quickly signed

To me with one look that I should present

The waters of my spring. “May I now find,”

I said, “The proper words of argument

To fit my thoughts, by that same grace that grants

Me leave to make confession to the Chief

Centurion, flag-bearer and first lance.”   70

I went on: “As that pen of true belief

Held by your dearest saintly brother Paul

(He who helped you in choosing the right track

For Rome) once wrote, faith is the stuff of all

Things hoped for, and, of all things that we lack

The sight of, is the evidence: and this

I take to be its essence.” Then I heard:

“You are correct in your analysis

If you grasp why Paul placed faith, the key word,

First among actual things and only next   80

Among the arguments.” And I: “The deep

Occurrences, to me made a clear text

Up here, to eyes below so tightly keep

Their secrets, that belief alone suggests

They might exist. On that, high hope is based,

Which therefore, in the Scripture which attests

To it, takes substance. As we find it placed

In Testaments both Old and New, from those

We take belief, and from belief we must

Then reason, seeing no more. So I close   90

By saying that faith holds, in sacred trust,

The character of evidence.” “Well done,”

I heard. “If all the doctrine there below

Were understood so well by everyone

Concerned, the sophists, proud of what they know,

Or think they know, would have less elbow room

For empty cleverness.” Thus breathed the flame

Of kindled love. Then more: “We can assume

We have well weighed the coin that bears the name

Of faith, whose alloy, too, we have assayed.   100

Now tell me if you have it in your purse.”

And I: “I have indeed, and it’s high grade.

So bright and round that I, too, can be terse.

It’s fresh out of the mint.” And from the heart

Of that deep shining light came this: “This jewel,

Precious with every value in each part,

How did it get to you? Give me the rule.”

And I: “The rain the Holy Spirit pours

In floods from those twin parchments Old and New:

It forms a syllogism which implores   110

Me always to believe, and so I do,

Since every other demonstration weighs

As nothing beside that one.” He then: “Why

Do you hold what the Old and New Books say

For Holy Word that you cannot deny

Settles all arguments?” I: “For the way

The works that followed proved it to be fact:

The miracles, which nature could not make

With heated iron or struck anvil. Backed

By such great things, it could be no mistake.”   120

And he: “Now tell me how you are assured

These works occurred. Surely the very thing

That must be proved is all that can afford

A proof for them.” I said: “To this I bring

The words of Augustine, who said the world

Needed no miracle for it to be

Won to Christ’s way, and from that fact unfurled

The greatest miracle we’ll ever see,

Such that all others put together yield

Less than a hundredth part of it. For you   130

When you were poor and fasting, took the field

To sow the good vine, now degraded to

A thorn. But still with you the pact was sealed:

The written promise was proved true.” That said,

The high and holy court, through every sphere,

Rang with the song that they sing overhead:

“We praise you, God.” And then the Baron (here

I use the earthly title) who had brought

Me thus from branch to branch in my defence

Of how my deepest faith had formed my thought,   140

Began again: “God’s grace, which, in a sense,

Is in love with your mind, has until now

Opened your lips in ways that I endorse,

But finally we reach the highest bough

Of this tree, the completion of the course:

What is it you believe? And tell me how

It came to you. Where from?” And I replied:

“O Holy Father, you that outstripped John,

Whose young feet got there first, to go inside

The sepulchre—because he waved you on,   150

You being senior—you ask the form,

The essence, of my willing faith. As well,

You ask the source of it.” Then I grew warm

To that theme. “I’ve a simple truth to tell.

In one sole and eternal God I place

All my belief, the God who reigns unmoved,

Yet moving all of Heaven with the grace

Of His love and desire. The fact is proved

By physical and metaphysical

Proofs I possess, but also by the rain   160

Of truth that never falters in its fall,

Sent down to us, as spring showers to the grain,

Through Moses and the Prophets and the Psalms,

The Gospels and through you, the ones that wrote

The vital extra texts. His burning arms

Embraced you: you were holy. On a note

Less simple, but essential, I believe

In three eternal persons, and all these

One essence, three in one that interweave

Oneness with threeness so the whole agrees   170

With singular and plural, ‘is’ and ‘are.’

Of this deep, sacred state of which I speak,

The teaching of the Gospel is by far

The stamp that never stops. There you may seek

The start and spark which broadens to a star

Shining within me.” As a master hears

His servant out who has brought pleasant news,

Then, when he’s fallen silent, gladly nears

The man and gives him the embrace we use

With friends, so now the apostolic light,   180

To which I’d spoken at his firm request,

Encircled me three times in joyful flight—

Because, having survived the spoken test,

I had no more to say, which pleased him best.

CANTO 25

If ever it should come to pass that my

Long sacred poem—to which Heaven and Earth

For many years, twisting my life awry,

Have set their hand—should prove its proper worth

And overcome the cruelty that keeps

Me far from the fair sheepfold of my birth

Where once I lay down as a new lamb sleeps,

Foe to the wolves that war upon it, then,

Clad in an older voice, a tougher fleece,

I’ll come back as a poet. Once again,   10

Before that font where infants never cease

To come to be baptised, I, just as when

I took that sacrament, will take the crown

Of laurel. There I came into the faith

That makes souls known to God when He looks down,

And now, on that account, the shining wraith

Of Peter runs a circle of renown

Around my brow. At this, a light moved near

From that same circle out of which had come

The first fruit of the line Christ left us here   20

To reign as pope. My lady, brimming sum

Of gladness, said to me: “See, see! Behold

The Baron for whose grave, down there below,

Galicia is visited by bold

And hardy pilgrims.” As the dove will show,

When it alights beside its mate, the love

It holds, and each will bill and coo and go

Circling round the other, so, above,

I saw two great and glorious princes wind

Around each other while both praised the feast   30

They shared up there. Their joy was unconfined,

But when their ceremony of greeting ceased

They both stopped just before me, in such flames

My sight turned blank. And smiling Beatrice said:

“Illustrious living soul, revered St. James,

Who wrote of how our royal chapel spread

Largesse below, make hope resound up here.

You can: for you exemplified it, all

Those times when Jesus showed he held most dear

The three of you. Sufficient to recall   40

That evening in Gethsemane, when you

And John, and Peter, were with Him.” Whereat

The second fire said this: “Adjust your view

Upward. Stop looking at your shoes like that.

Take confidence, for all who climb this high

From mortal life are ripened by our rays.”

Thus reassured, to those hills in the sky,

The two apostles, I addressed the gaze

They had weighed down before. The second light

Went on: “Our Emperor, in his Grace,   50

Wills that you come, before your fatal night,

To meet his noble cohorts face to face

In the inner chamber, so that, having seen

The truth of this court, you will gain in force

To spread abroad the one hope that can mean

True love below, and is its only source.

All the aforesaid being so, tell me

What hope is, how it blossomed in your mind,

And whence it came to you.” But instantly

My lady Beatrice, infinitely kind,   60

Who trained the feathers of my wings to soar

So high, replied for me. “That’s quickly done:

The Church in Arms has no child with a store

Of hope like his. It’s written in the sun

That radiates through all our hosts. Therefore,

He comes from Egypt to Jerusalem,

To see the way it looks, before his war

Is finished. Two more points—and both of them

You raised, not for your own enlightenment,

But to find out how he will give report   70

That it is dear to you, this heaven-sent

Virtue of hope—for him, one would have thought,

Will easily be met, nor need he fear

To seem vainglorious. So, with God’s Grace

His only help, he’ll speak, and you will hear

His answers on these questions in each case.”

Encouraged thus, I, like a pupil who

Answers his master, eager and prepared

To show he knows his subject through and through,

Said: “Hope. It is the expectation—spared   80

From all uncertainty, devoid of doubt—

Of future glory. From the Grace Divine

It springs, although that fact does not leave out

The merit of good works. Hope was made mine

Like light from many stars, but it was first

Distilled in my heart by the singing King

David, in holy numbers so well versed

Our Lord of Hosts appointed him to sing

As sovereign cantor. His divine song goes:

‘In you, let them have hope that know your name,’   90

And this, in my faith, everybody knows.

He made the rain for us. You did the same,

In your Epistle. So I was fulfilled,

To rain your rain on all.” I saw the flame

Flash while I spoke, its living heart instilled

With lightning, sudden and repeated. Then

It breathed: “The love, with which I still burn, for

The virtue that stayed with me even when

They put me to the sword, bids me breathe more

To you who so delight in it. Now tell   100

What hope has promised you.” And I: “The new

And ancient scriptures set forth very well

The goal that all souls may look forward to

That He befriends. And here, are we not there?

Isaiah says that each, in his own land,

Will be twice clothed, in soul and body. Where

Is that but here? We see on every hand

This land is the sweet life, and if we care

To read your brother John, he tells us of

A white-robed multitude, the self-same sight   110

Made yet more definite.” Then, from above,

As soon as I had finished, “That they might

Have hope in you” was heard, and all the choirs

Responded, and among them, one bright light

Shone out, and if the Crab contained such fires,

Winter would have a month without a night,

Lit by that jewel. And as a maiden, glad

To bless the bride, will rise and join the dance,

Not for the reputation to be had

Of lightness, but for honour, so my glance   120

Was caught by that great splendour which had grown

More bright, as it approached the two that wheeled

To that song, matching, to its lilting theme,

Their burning love. He joined them as they reeled,

Singing and dancing, and my lady gazed

Solely on them, a still and silent bride.

“This is the saint the Pelican once raised

Up to His breast to drink blood. The pierced side

Of Christ is that bird’s bosom. This is John,

The one that was selected from the cross   130

So Mary’s motherhood might yet go on,

With a new son to soothe her for her loss.”

So much my lady said, but never moved

The focus of her gaze when she was done,

A fixed intensity already proved

Sufficiently before she had begun.

As one who strives to see—and strains his eyes

Until they lose the power of sight—the sun

When partly its light lives and partly dies

Through incomplete eclipse, so, while it spoke,   140

Had I become before that last fire. “Why

Submit your vision to this dazzling stroke,

Looking for what is not here in the sky

But in the earth, and is earth, and will stay,

With all the other bodies, earth until

Our number tallies, on the final day,

With the eternal aim? Search as you will,

Only two lights, Christ and his mother, wear

The double robe of soul and body still,

After ascending to the cloister. Bear   150

That message when you go back to your world.”

And at these words the flaming circle fell

Silent, together with the sound that swirled

And mingled, given out by that sweet well

Of threefold breath. The same way, to avoid

Fatigue or danger, oars that, till then, struck

The water, will, the whistle once employed,

All stop at once. I could have cursed my luck

When, turning to the sight I so enjoyed,

My lady, I saw nothing, though I stood   160

Beside her, there where all things should be good.

CANTO 26

While I was still in fear from my lost sight,

The splendid flame which had extinguished it

Breathed some advice that kept me rapt. “You might,

Until your eyes recover from the fit

Induced by seeing me, find recompense

With speech. To start with, tell me of the aim

Your soul is set on. Be assured your sense

Of sight is just confused. That’s not the same

As being ruined: for your lady, who

Guides you through Paradise, has in her look   10

The power of the hand the Lord sent to

The stricken Saul. One touch was all it took:

The hand of Ananias.” I then: “May

Healing come soon or late as pleases her

Who brings it to the doors that were the way

She entered with the fire. And those doors were

My eyes: the fire, the one with which I burn

Always.” The voice that saved me from my fear

Of sudden dazzle now spoke in its turn,

Thus prompting me to greet what I could hear   20

With further speech. “It’s certain that you must

Sift with a finer sieve and say who trained

Your bow to this mark.” I said: “Here I trust

The philosophic arguments ingrained

In me on Earth, and the authority

Sent down from here. It’s fitting that such love

Should leave its imprint sharply edged on me,

Since good, just by the goodness it’s made of,

Must kindle love as soon as it is known,

And all the more the more good it contains.   30

Towards that Essence, then, in which alone

Such irresistible advantage reigns,

That any good outside is just a glow

Spilled by its radiance, the mind is moved—

Solely by love, and nothing else we know—

Of anyone who sees the truth is proved

On which this logic rests. This argument

Was set forth beyond all doubt, to my mind,

By Aristotle. That was his intent

When he said that the heavens—where we find,   40

Of course, the angels of intelligence—

Were moved by primal love, or the First Cause,

To use his term. Just so, in congruence,

The truthful Author, God, who gave the laws

To Moses, spoke when of Himself He said

‘I’ll make you see all goodness.’ And you, too,

Told me the same when, in your book, I read—

It’s there in Chapter One—of what was true

From when the world was new: that it began

As one Word. A sublime announcement! More   50

Than any other forecast known to man

It told the world below what lay in store

Above: the holy mystery of this place.”

I heard: “On grounds of human reason, then,

And all authorities that match its pace,

The highest of the loves instilled in men

Looks toward God. But are there other cords

That draw you to Him? Name me all the teeth

With which this love that hauls you heavenwards

Bites you.” The holy aim at work beneath   60

These things Christ’s Eagle said was not concealed

From me. Indeed, I marshalled from the start

The thoughts I guessed he wished to be revealed.

“All things,” I said, “whose bite can draw the heart

To God, are unified within the field

Of what joins them. The world, and I, exist.

The death He bore that I might live. The hope

Of Heaven, which, the living facts insist,

Is shared by all believers. This whole scope

Of knowledge draws me safely from the sea   70

Of perverse love and brings me here to this,

The shore of true love and its equity,

The destination of a synthesis.

The Gardener Eternal has bedecked

His bowers with infinities of leaves.

I love them all, for what makes them connect:

The good He gives, the splendour it achieves.”

As I fell silent, a great wave of song

Flooded the heaven, and my lady sang

The same sweet melody. She sang along   80

With all the others, and the welkin rang

To “Holy, holy, holy!” And as sleep

Is broken by a sharp light piercing through

Film after film because a spirit deep

Within the sense of sight will take its cue

To meet the impact, and the awakened one

Shrinks back from what he sees, so unaware

Is he, when the new vision has begun,

Of what it means, until, to help lay bare

The truth of it, his judgement comes back, so   90

The motes in my eyes were all chased away

By Beatrice with her radiance, whose flow

Travelled a thousand miles, and the array

Of lights was clear again, more than before.

I asked her in amazement how it was

The three lights there had been joined by one more.

“These rays,” she answered, “are sent out because

The soul within, the first soul ever made

By the First Power, looks with love upon

His Maker.” As a branch whose top is swayed   100

By a gust of wind, springs, when the gust is gone,

Upright again by natural force, so I,

While she was speaking, was at first amazed,

Then once again my confidence was high,

Spurred by the need to speak with which I blazed.

I said this: “You, the one fruit born full-grown

In ripeness, and of old the father to

All brides—each one of whom could be your own

Daughter or your son’s wife—I beg of you

To speak with me. I ask with all respect.   110

You guess my wish. To have it sooner met,

I do not say it.” Sometimes we detect

A hidden animal by how its fret

To move disturbs its wrappings. Light unchecked,

This primal soul showed through its coverings

How gladly it had come to gratify

My silent wish. It breathed the following things:

“Without your saying so, I can descry

Your wish more clearly than your own sight brings

Your utmost certainties to mind, for I   120

See it through God, the truthful mirror which

Reflects all else though not reflected by

A single thing that serves to make it rich.

You want to hear how much time I have shared

With God since He first put me in this place

Your lady brought you to, so well prepared

To see its splendour, by a steep staircase.

You want to know how long my eyes were bared

To its delight, and also the real spur

Of God’s great wrath. What was it, the first sin?   130

What language did I shape and use? These were

Your thoughts, my son. Hear me as I begin

To answer them. The tasting of the tree

Was not, alone, the cause of my exile

For so long. No, we crossed a boundary

Of pride, for that fell serpent had the guile

To say: ‘The day you eat this, you will be

Like Gods.’ In that place where your lady went

For Virgil, I missed seeing the sun’s trail

Forty-three hundred times after I spent   140

More than nine hundred years alive to see it sail

From point to point, lighting the Zodiac

In its due order, which can never fail

To be fulfilled, for always it comes back

While men can see. As for the tongue I spoke,

It died before the race of Nimrod gave

Their minds to the Babelic tower that broke:

A project no amount of hope could save,

For nothing human reason makes endures

Forever, since all human tastes must change    150

According to the stars. Nature ensures

That men shall speak, but neither is it strange

That how they speak will switch this way and that

As human pleasure—nature’s gift—dictates.

Even before I went down to Hell’s vat

Of pain, the Good Supreme that radiates

The endless joy that swathes me now was named,

On Earth, in several ways, and that was fit,

For human usage can no more be blamed

For changing than a leaf, which does not sit   160

Forever on its branch, but falls and grows

Again, another one to match the last.

In Eden, on the soaring mount that knows

No hindrance as it rises unsurpassed

Out of the sea, I lived, first pure and then

Ridden with guilt, from dawn till just past noon—

For seven hours. The very moment when

The sun changed quadrants—it was all too soon—

I left that garden, knowing shame and fear,

Then exile, death, and Hell. Now, I am here.”   170

CANTO 27

“Glory,” all paradise began to sing,

“To Father, Son and Holy Ghost!” The sweet

Song held me spellbound. I saw everything

In all creation smile. My joy complete

Came into me by hearing and by sight.

The thrill! The gladness, more than I can say!

The life fulfilled with love, peace and delight!

The riches held secure and there to stay,

More than the soul could crave, try as it might!

Before me the four torches stood aflame.   10

The one that had come first grew still more bright,

Though in its aspect it became the same

As Jupiter would be if it and Mars

Were birds exchanging plumage. Providence,

Which here rules time and duty and the stars,

Reduced the holy chorus to silence

On every side, whereat I heard: “If I

Change colour, do not marvel. While I speak

You’ll see them all do that, and here is why:

It is the way that shame will flood a cheek.   20

He that on Earth usurps my place, my place,

My place, which now is empty in the view

Of God’s Son, turns my tomb to a disgrace,

A sewer of blood and muck, a comfort to

The twisted one who fell from here, and now,

Down there, lives well.” I saw the colour of

The sunrise and the sunset clouds endow

With earthly red light all the world above,

And as a woman, chaste and self-assured

In virtue, hearing of another’s fault,   30

Flushes with shame, so I saw my adored

Beatrice change semblance in the same assault

Of anger. Just so, all white light was spent,

I do believe, when Heaven looked down upon

The agony of the Omnipotent

And went into eclipse. Their joy was gone.

Peter continued, in an altered voice

To match his altered looks. “Our Holy Church,

The Bride of Christ, was nurtured in the choice

Of martyrdom by men who did not search   40

For gold. Linus and Cletus shed their tears

And blood to gain this life. And there were more—

Sixtus and Pius, in those early years,

Urban, Calixtus, all our noble store

Of saints—of whom none meant that there should sit,

On our successor’s right hand, just one part

Of Christ’s flock, or that he should find it fit

To place the rest, by his divisive art,

On his left hand, Guelph split from Ghibelline;

Nor that the keys that were consigned to me   50

Should be his battle standard, meant to mean

His war on the Colonna just might be

A holy one, though they were Christians all;

Nor that my head, carved on the papal seal,

Should lend prestige to an indulgence stall,

As if I gave men leave to cheat and steal—

For which I often turn red and flash fire.

From here above I see the ravening

Wolves dressed as shepherds hunt at their desire

Through all the pastures. Why, why do you cling   60

To sleep, dear heavenly defence? Two popes—

Clement of Gascony, John of Cahors—

Would drink our blood. Ah, founder of our hopes

And fair beginnings, tell me for what cause

You fall so far, to such a paltry end!

Yet Providence, which gave us Scipio

To conquer Hannibal and so extend

Rome’s glory to the world, will soon, I know,

Bring help. And you, my son, when you return

To your mortality down there below,   70

Must tell them of the rage with which I burn.

I show it. So should you.” Just as our air,

In winter, with the sun in Capricorn,

Is flaked with frozen vapours, so, up there,

I saw—but falling upwards—flakes adorn

The ether in their triumph, all of those

Who had been with us, and I watched them climb

Until the distance brought it to a close,

That sight, though I had watched them all the time,

And not once looked away. My lady, then,   80

Seeing me freed from gazing up, said “Cast

Your sight down, now. Look at your path again

And see how far you’ve travelled since the last

Time that you looked.” I saw how, since then, I

Had moved through all the arc—Jerusalem

To Spain—swept by the stars of Gemini,

So there, beyond Cadiz, glittered the hem

Of ocean on which, sailing out to die,

Ulysses in his madness stitched his track,

And over there the sun had set on Crete,   90

Where Jupiter the bull took, on his back,

Europa as a burden fair and sweet.

All this I saw, and might have seen yet more,

But underneath my feet the sun did not

Stand still: across that little threshing floor

The eastern edge moved west, the bright and hot

Becoming dark and cool. The loving mind

That woos my lady always, without cease,

Was burning to have my eyes reassigned

Again to her, the object of release   100

For all my joy. If Nature ever made

In human flesh, or art in portraiture,

Baits for the eyes so that the mind be swayed

Until possessed, all those together were

As nothing when compared to the divine

Delight that shone upon me when I turned

To see her smiling face look into mine

With holy grace. The impulse that I earned

From that glance pulled me free from the fair nest

Of Leda, mother of the Twins, and sent   110

Me straight to where there spun, without arrest,

That heaven whose sheer speed is never spent,

The Crystalline, the sphere that sets the test

For all the others. High or low, its parts

Are so alike I couldn’t tell which one

She chose to put me in, but with her arts

Of divination, how my thoughts had run

Was plain to her. With God’s joy in her face

She smiled and spoke. “From here, the universe

Begins, unmoving only in this place,   120

The launching point from which the rays disperse

Of love, which the Divine Mind has instilled

Just here. Only from here the sweet rain falls

Of virtue. A still centre He has willed,

And light and love in circles He installs

Around it, as it does with lesser spheres,

But of this one sphere’s girdling, only He

Is the Intelligence. The light, the years,

The spin of all the others come to be

By measure from this one, as two and five   130

Come out of ten, and how time has its roots

In this one’s plot, and theirs can come alive

Only as leaves because it puts out shoots,

Might now be clear to you. Covetousness!

You plunge the mortals so deep that none has

The power to lift his drowned eyes. None the less,

Will blossoms within men, but even as

It does, like sound plums in unending rain,

They wither. Faith and innocence are found

Only in little children, and remain   140

Only while cheeks are bare. Both things are bound

To flee. For one who lisps may keep the fasts,

But when his tongue is free, eats everything

In any month: that first pledge never lasts.

Another, lisping too, will gladly bring

Love to his mother, lend her views respect,

But when his speech is perfect he will ache

To see her buried. Just so, the unflecked

White skin of innocence is sure to take

A dark tone at the first sight of the sun’s   150

Fair daughter Circe, she that represents

The pleasures of the world. Since no one runs

The Earth, to be astonished makes no sense:

The human family strays. But even though,

Because our calendar has made the year

Too long by an hour’s quarter, as you know,

And January must gradually appear

A little later in the season, still,

Before it shifts completely—call the span

Less than a thousand years—for sure there will   160

Be such a shining on the world of man

From these realms on the heights, that the event

So long awaited must turn all the ships

From prow to stern, the fleet again be sent

On its true course, and flowers the bee sips

Will be succeeded by good fruit, as they

Should be. Not now, but soon. Somehow. Some day.”

CANTO 28

The truth about the life poor mortals lead

Today, had been expounded by the one

Who turns my mind to paradise. I need

Say only how, after the thing was done,

I was like someone who, lit from behind,

Can see, before he thinks, a torch’s flame

There in the mirror, and turns round to find

If glass tells truth, and finds both flames the same,

Agreeing with each other like a song

With its own measure. So, my memory   10

Records, I did then, gazing deep and long

Once more into the fair eyes that for me

Were love’s noose, fashioned for my capture. Then

I turned again, and my eyes were met by

What must appear to the observer when

He looks hard at the spinning in the sky

Of this sphere. There I saw a point that so

Streamed sharp light that the eyes on which it burns

Must close, pierced by its force. No star we know,

Even the least from which our sight returns,   20

But would not seem a moon if put beside

That brilliant point like star with star combined.

And as a halo closely will abide

With that light which supplies it but refined

Through air most dense, so, maybe just as near,

About this point a fiery circle wheeled

So fast that even that most rapid sphere

Which girds the world would have been forced to yield

The palm for speed. The Primum Mobile,

I mean, was slow compared to this, and this   30

Was circled by another the same way,

And then both by a third. Analysis

Revealed a fourth and fifth, and then two more,

The seventh spreading so wide that Iris,

The rainbow, Juno’s herald, would be sore

Put to contain it even if complete:

And then there were two more again. Yes, nine

All told, and each in movement the less fleet

The more removed it was, in this design,

From that first one, flame clear beyond compare,   40

Because, I thought, less distant from the pure

Initial spark, and thus with the best share

Of all the truth it held. Keen but unsure

I must have seemed, because my lady said:

“The heavens and all nature both depend

From that point. Know the inner ring is sped

So swiftly by the burning, without end,

Of love.” And I said: “If the universe

Were set out in the order that these wheels

Conform to, then the clean match would disperse   50

My doubts about the scheme your speech reveals

As heavenly. But in the world of sense

We can’t help seeing that the circles are

Always the more divine the further hence

From our own centre, set from near to far

The other way around. If my desire

May gain its end in this most wonderful

Temple of angels—love and light on fire

Its only bounds—then I must hear it all

About the reasons that the pattern and   60

Its copy do not follow the same plan,

Since by myself I strive to understand

Without result.” My lady then began

“Nothing to wonder at, that such a knot

Defies your fingers, since it has grown hard

From being left alone.” She went on: “What

I tell you about next in this regard

You should take, if you would be satisfied,

As whetstone for your wit. Material spheres

Are large and small according to the tide   70

Of virtue, as it spreads out and inheres

Through all their parts. An excellence more great

Makes greater blessedness, which in its turn

Must take a greater body if the state

Of all its parts—just look and you will learn—

Is equal in perfection. Thus we see

That this sphere, swept along with all the rest

Of what exists, responds in symmetry

At all points to the circle that loves best

And knows most. So if you apply your gauge   80

Not to the seeming, but the virtue, of

The spirits that you still think, at this stage,

Are circles, you will see how, here above,

Each heaven marvellously corresponds

With its Intelligence, the small with less,

The great with more, united by their bonds.”

Just as the air is cleared of all distress,

Its vault serene and shining, by the breeze

From the northeast, as Boreas puffs his cheek

Most mild, and yet the thickest fog with ease   90

He thins and drives away, its grip gown weak,

Until the blue sky smiles on us again

With all its lovely pageant, so it was

With me, through what my lady granted then:

In heaven a star shone, and all because,

Her answer clear, the truth was plain. And when

She paused in speech, the circles sparkled just

As boiling iron sparkles, and each spark

Stayed with its fire. And at this point I must

Have recourse to the Persian patriarch   100

Of chess, who asked his king for pay in corn,

One grain for the first square, two for the next,

Four for the third. A hill of seed was born

From just one chessboard, and the king was vexed,

But all that mighty number would not meet

By many thousands this great multitude

Of lights. From choir to choir I heard the sweet

Hosanna sung to that fixed point, imbued

With power that holds them there, and always will,

Where they have always been. And she then said   110

(Aware that, deep down, I was wondering still),

“The first two circles showed you the life led

By Seraphim and Cherubim, held in

Their course by bonds of love, and therefore sped

Swiftly to all the likeness they can win

To that point. By the measure that their view

Exalts them, they do so. Beyond these rings

The spirits circle that are known to you

As Thrones of Sacred Aspect. By three things,

Therefore, the primal triad is made whole.   120

Know also that they all take great delight

In how their vision pierces to the soul

Of truth, in which all minds enjoy the right

To find rest. And from this it may be seen

That blessedness comes from the power of sight

And not of love, which follows. Here I mean

That merit, which goodwill and grace beget,

Measures their vision. That’s the process, grade

By grade. The second triad to be set

And flower in this spring which has been made   130

Eternal, with no Ram at night to serve

Autumn and winter, sings without a pause

Hosanna, as three ranks pursue their curve

In bliss, and form the triad. By the laws

Of hierarchy the next orders come:

First the Dominions, then the Virtues, then

The Powers. Next to last in this great sum

Of circles—three times three, one less than ten,

And each one by the next in girth surpassed—

The Principalities revolve, ringed round   140

By the Archangels, and, not least, but last,

The Angels play their games on holy ground

Of open sky. And all the orders gaze

Above, and so prevail below, that all

Draw, and are drawn, to God. In early days,

When Paul still lived, I’m sure you will recall,

His convert Dionysius worked out

The plan in every detail, large and small,

With zeal presaging what I’ve talked about,

Though later Gregory thought otherwise,   150

And when he got here he was forced to smile

At what he’d said by that which met his eyes.

But if one mortal saw it well the while

He was on Earth, there’s no cause for surprise,

For Paul had told him of it. Paul was here

Before his death, and saw all this and more

Of Heaven’s truth, so he knew how to steer

The mind of Dionysius to shore

Across the sea of doubt. Now what Paul knew

While he yet breathed is known again, by you.”   160

CANTO 29

When, at the time of our spring equinox,

The Sun, Apollo, rises in the Ram

And the Moon, Diana of the lovely locks,

Is sinking in the Scales—when, to the gram,

The two are balanced, so that each one wears

The world’s horizon for a belt, both west

And east, loads that the zenith bears—

For just the time between that point of rest

And when the two of them change hemisphere,

Unbalanced from that girdle, Beatrice kept   10

Her silence, smiling with her face a sheer

Cascade of light, and on the point that swept

My senses from me, her own gaze was fixed.

“I tell,” she said, “I don’t ask, what you ache

To hear, for I can see it there unmixed

Where all dimensions meet with no mistake

And every time and place is centred. Wrong

To think that He might for Himself gain good:

That cannot be, in short term or in long.

Right, though, to think that His great splendour could   20

Shine back and say, from His eternity,

‘I am.’ Beyond time and all other bounds,

The everlasting love was pleased to be

Revealed as who He is, one who astounds

With all His new loves. Nor did He, before,

Lie still and sleeping, as we now might say.

‘Before’ and ‘after’ were mere words that bore

No meaning, not until He made our day,

Moving upon the waters. Substance, form,

Both separate and united, then could come   30

To life, three arrows flying in a swarm

From one bow with three strings: a life, in sum,

Without flaw. As a ray shines into glass,

Amber, or crystal so that from the time

Of its arrival no more time will pass

Before it is complete, just so the prime

Threefold creation happened in a flash,

Sent by its Lord in one burst with no sign

Of demarcation, one thing with no clash

Of lesser things or even their outline:   40

Whole from the start. And with that, there began

Order, the frame created and ordained

For all the angels, summit of the plan

Which is the universe. From them it gained

Pure Act, and the pure Potency was placed

Lowest, and in between these purities

The bond that knows no bounds was interspaced

To join them. Your Jerome wrote fantasies

About the course of ages that it took

To make the angels, the world not made yet:   50

But what I say comes from another book,

A truth on many pages firmly set

In writing by the scribes whose guiding voice

Outranks Jerome. I mean the Holy Ghost.

Just read it carefully and make your choice,

Helped by the written source that matters most,

Although your reason, too, to some extent

Should see it, for no logic can allow

The heavenly movers ever could be meant

To wait for their perfection. You know now   60

The where and when of their creation, and

On top of those two things you know the how:

The three flames of what you would understand

Are thus already spent. Then, sooner still

Than you might count to twenty, a small part

Of that angelic total took ill will

To your world, but the rest stayed with this art

That you see now, and circled in delight,

Never to leave. The signal for the fall?

The accursed pride of him who, in the night,   70

You saw imprisoned down there, crushed by all

The world’s weights. But the angels you see here

Humbly acknowledged that they had been made

By Goodness, fit, in being kept so near,

To know so much, and to the highest grade

Their virtue was exalted by God’s grace

And their own merit, so that they have full

And firm minds. Nor should you allow a place

For doubt, but be convinced, immovable,

On this point: it’s a merit to receive   80

Such grace, by just as much as the heart stays

Open to let it in. Only believe

My words, and you’re at liberty to gaze

Without my help on this community.

But since your schools on earth say that the sort

Of angels is to have a memory,

To understand and will—all this is taught—

I shall go on, that you might clearly see

The truth, which is, down there, so sadly fraught

With ambiguity. Not since the day   90

That they were made glad by God’s face from which

Nothing is hidden, have they turned away

Their eyes from it, so nothing new is rich

Enough to reach their sight. They have no need

To recollect the past by any scheme

Of abstract thought. Down there where mere men breed

And die, while they’re awake they only dream,

Believing they speak truth or that they lie,

But in that second thing’s the greater blame

And shame. With no one path to codify   100

Your thinking, you get caught up in the game

Of showing off, and even this is borne,

Up here, with far less ire than when divine

Scripture is slighted or misread to spawn

Perversion. There is never any sign

Of thought among you of the blood it cost

To sow the world with it, or how he earns

Respect who comes to it with all pride lost.

Each flaunts originality, each burns

To put in something clever, gaily tossed   110

Into the text from which he never learns.

The price goes up when preachers add their share

Of footling comment, and the Gospel runs

A distant second, silent in despair.

One says that at Christ’s agony, the sun’s

Light was blocked out because the moon turned back,

And others say the light, all on its own,

Went into hiding, so the sky turned black

From one end to the other of the zone,

So Spaniards and Indians as well as Jews   120

Were in the dark. Florence has fewer boys

With names so many families seem to choose—

Lapo and Bindo—than these bags of noise

Proclaiming from their pulpits cocksure views—

Year in, year out, the pleasure never cloys—

To poor sheep who return from pasture fed

On pure wind. That they do not see their loss

Doesn’t excuse the pundits peddling lead

For gold. Christ didn’t say ‘The crowd wants dross:

Spin them a line’ to his first regiment.   130

He gave them a true basis. Nothing less

Was on their lips than gospel when they went

Into the world to battle faithlessness:

It was their shield and spear. But now they preach

With jokes and taunts, and if they get a laugh

Their cowls puff up, as if the stuff they teach

Were not just too much cleverness by half

But all that counts. They bask in the acclaim

And ask no more. The devil, that sleek crow,

Nests in the hood’s tail to wrap up his fame,   140

Yet if the people saw him they would know

They’re trusting in a swindle, from which such

Folly has grown on earth that they will flock

To any promise, and without so much

As one hint of a warrant. Thus the stock

Of hogs that were St. Anthony’s wax fat,

Which once were sacred. Others more swinish still

Wax fatter. And the coin they pay for that

Is counterfeit: pardons exchanged for swill.

But we’ve digressed enough. Time for your eyes   150

To once more meet the straight road, so it may

Be shortened, with the time. Here in the skies,

These angels number, in their vast array,

Beyond what mortal thought can well devise

A figure for, or mortal speech can say,

For Daniel spoke of thousands but could not

Be definite: ten thousand squared, and then

That number cubed, and . . . he just meant a lot

More than the mind could hold. Unknown to men,

The sum is yours to see. The primal light   160

Irradiating all of them is caught

By them in many ways, in all the bright

Splendours from which that central blaze is wrought.

Therefore, since the affections follow on

From their conception, the initial act,

Love’s sweetness, streaming from the paragon,

Shines variously in them, by that one fact

Impelled to all the numberless degrees

And kinds of brilliance, pinpoint strength unpacked

Into the myriad intensities   170

Of its expression. Look at how it glows,

The height, the width of the Eternal Good:

So many mirrors where it breaks and goes

On breaking, yet remains the one thing. Could

One and the many show more harmony?

It stuns you, doesn’t it? It still stuns me.”

CANTO 30

Six thousand long miles eastward it is noon.

Here, night is ending. The Earth’s shadow lies

Level in bed, and in the mid-sky, soon,

Deep up above us, to our searching eyes,

A change will come: the odd star disappears,

The handmaid of the sun approaches. One

By one the sky’s lights shut down as she nears,

Even the loveliest, and it is done:

The new day dawns. Exactly in that wise

The triumph that has always been at play   10

Around that point, and will be though time flies

Forever—the pure point that took away

My senses and which, to the reeling mind,

Includes that which includes it—bit by bit

Retreated from my sight, so, being blind

And full of love, there was no help for it:

I turned my eyes to her. If all I’ve said

Of Beatrice up to now were gathered in

One song of praise, it would be left for dead

By this task. I scarce know how to begin.   20

Not only is the beauty that I saw

Beyond our measures, but I do believe

Only its Maker can express the store

Of joy in it. For me, I can’t conceive

The first phrase, and I must admit defeat.

Comic or tragic, poet never met

A point, in any theme he chose to treat,

More dizzying, for, as weak sight is set

Wavering by the sun, the memory

Of that sweet smile undoes my mind. In all   30

The time from that first day I came to see

Her face in life to this incredible

Moment of seeing her again, my song

Has gone on, but from now I must desist

From singing of the beauty that so long

Has drawn my verse, unable to resist,

Through many cantos, since the point must come,

For any artist, when his powers give out.

Therefore I leave her to a mightier sum

Of heraldry than mine: the final shout   40

Of my poor trumpet falters and falls dumb

As its hard theme comes winding to an end.

With voice and bearing of a patient guide

Whose work is done, no hard way left to wend,

She said “We have come through to the far side

Of Heaven’s largest realm, to which you lend

The name of Primum Mobile, and here

We rise into a heaven of pure light—

Of intellectual light, light full of sheer

Pure love, love full of goodness true and right,   50

Love full of joy, joy so sweet as to shame

All other sweet things else. Here you will know

By sight, the holy soldiers that you name

Angels and saints, and those saints will be so

As they were in their lives, and thus the same

As they will be when you see them again

At the Last Judgement.” Thus, exactly as

Our visual spirits are soon scattered when

A bolt of lightning strikes, because it has

Such power our power to see it is outrun   60

And even the clearest objects lose their place,

Just so a vivid fiery light was spun

Around me like a veil that made all space

Invisible to me, with every one

Of its particulars eclipsed. “The love

That calms this heaven,” she continued, “will

Always so welcome one who comes above,

Preparing the cold candle thus to fill

Its cusp with flame.” When these brief words arrived

In my mind, I was instantly aware   70

Of powers within me that had never thrived

So much, or so far risen through the air:

New powers of vision, such that there could be

No light, however strongly brought to bear,

My eyes could not have borne. And suddenly

I saw light with a river’s form that poured

Its splendour in between two banks bedecked

With all the colours our spring days afford:

A marvellous spring, though one you might expect,

Except this living flood sent sparks abroad   80

To settle on the flowers of either bank

Like rubies set in gold. As if their heads

Were dizzy from the perfumes that they drank,

They rose again out of the flower beds

And plunged back, scintillating rank on rank,

Into the stream, to be replaced by more

That soared from the same ripples where they sank,

And so it all continued as before.

“The high desire,” she said, “that flames within

Your mind to know just what is happening   90

Delights me more the more it swells to win

More space to burn. But now to the first thing

You need to do before you can begin

To slake your great thirst. First you have to drink

From that stream.” Thus the sun who ruled my eyes

Addressed me, and continued: “Look and think:

The river and the topazes that rise

And fly from it and then return to sink,

And how the flowers laugh, are the forecast,

In shadow, of the truth. They don’t fall short   100

Of being perfect. It is you, at last,

That has the defect. Still less than it ought

To be, your vision is outmatched as yet.”

No infant that has slept too long could throw

Itself so suddenly, its sure aim set,

Towards the milk, as I, who thirsted so

To make of my eyes better mirrors still,

Bent down to where I saw the waters flow,

With all the sparkling interchange they spill,

For our perfecting. When my eyelids’ eaves   110

Were wet, it seemed that instantly the stream

Transformed its length to roundness. What deceives,

Reveals, once done away with, how a dream

Holds more than we had thought. As people who,

Having worn masks, when they remove them seem

Not quite the same as those we thought we knew,

For me the sparks and flowers now had changed

Into a greater festival, in which

Both courts of Heaven clearly stood arranged.

Splendour of God that let me see the rich   120

High triumph of truth’s kingdom, help me tell

Of what I saw! There is a light that spreads

So wide that its circumference would fall well

Outside the girdle of the sun. It sheds

The sight of their Creator, as He is,

On all whose peace depends on seeing Him,

For He is with them all, and they are His.

And all the flood of light within that rim

Is made by no more than a single ray

Reflected from, with all its wealth and force,   130

The summit of the Primum Mobile,

And as a hillside looks down to a course

Of water at its foot and sees itself,

Adorned with its spring flowers and its green grass,

Exactly pictured in that mirrored shelf,

I saw, above this light, one tier surpass

Another for a thousand tiers, and there

Were all of us who ever have returned

On high, and if the lowest level’s share

Of incandescence that within it burned   140

Was so great, what could be the full extent

Of this rose in its furthest petals? Here

The breadth and length did not exhaust my glance,

Since there was no increase from being near

Or loss from being far, in this extent

And quality of joy. For where God’s law

Directly rules His unmixed element,

The law of Nature can apply no more.

Into the yellow everlasting rose,

Rising and spreading in its serried ranks,   150

Exhaling heady perfumes that disclose

Praise to the sun, extending its deep thanks

For a perpetual spring, Beatrice drew me

As one who, silent, still would speak. “Behold!”

She said, “How great, how great the company

Of these white robes! See, see now and be told

How great the city! See our seats so filled

That few souls are still lacking. And in that

Great chair on which your eyes are held and stilled

By the crown poised over it, there will be sat—   160

Before you come to join the nuptial feast—

The soul of Henry, who shall be, below,

Made emperor, to get Italy released

From her wrong course, but she will be too slow

To heed him. Ah, too soon, too soon deceased,

Your one hope and the hopes of your fair land!

For your blind greed will only be increased,

Driving the Guelphs to take their senseless stand

And break his noble heart. Greed makes you like

The hungry infant who drives out his nurse,   170

For at that time a two-faced pope will strike

With his forked tongue. Yes, Clement, who will curse

Henry in secret while he speaks aloud

In praise of him. God will not suffer long

That pope in office. Mantled in a shroud,

He will go down to share the prize for wrong

With Simon Magus. A still deeper place

Awaits his predecessor, Boniface.”

CANTO 31

The form, then, of the saintly host of Christ

Was shown to me as being a white rose,

A perfect rose which, with His own blood, Christ

Has made His bride. But also there are those—

The other host—who, flying, see and sing

The glory of the Lord who holds their love

And goodness that has made them everything

They are, and there they are, at large above.

Just like a swarm of bees that first will dive

Into the flowers and then go back to turn   10

Their toil to nectar, treasure of the hive,

These ones I watched—for I was here to learn—

Descend headlong into the mighty flower

Of many petals, and then re-ascend

To where the love abides in all its power

Forever, and then, flying without end,

They swoop again, their faces living flame,

Their wings of gold, and for the rest, so white

Our fresh snow couldn’t hope to seem the same.

When they again went back down from the height   20

Into the bloom, they gave it, tier on tier,

The peace and order they had gained from how

They fanned their sides with wings. Nor did the sheer

Abundance of their flying—marvel, now—

From height to flower, in any way impede

The sight in all its splendour. The divine

Light penetrates, with instant spread and speed,

The universe to every part, in line

With what it’s worth. Nothing can intercede.

Serene and joyous kingdom, thronged with all   30

These people old and new, where love and sight

Without a break, shared one field and no wall!

Ah, look upon our tempest, Threefold Light,

Sent outward from a single star to fall

On everyone in equal measure! Think

How the barbarians, born where the Bears—

Great Bear and Little Bear—both wheel and blink,

Were so reduced to slack mouths and dumb stares

When first they saw the mighty works of Rome,

The Lateran outsoaring any roof,   40

By ten times, that they’d ever seen at home.

Then think of me, when faced there with the proof

Of how far I had come, the human plane

To the divine, time to eternity,

The Florentines to people just and sane.

Amazement added to my joy made me

Content to hear no sound and to remain

Silent. And as a pilgrim looks around

The temple of his vow refreshed, and hopes

To tell again some day of what he found,   50

So I took my eyes upward through the slopes

Of living light, and I surveyed the ranks,

Now up, now down, and now around again,

Through all the faces so evoking thanks

For Charity. With Another’s light, and then

With light from their own smiles, their faces shone,

And every move with dignity and grace.

Thus I had seen, but not yet lingered on,

In any part, the structure of that place.

And for those points my mind had paused upon   60

I turned to ask my lady if she’d make

Them clear to my rekindled eagerness.

My expectation, though, was a mistake.

Instead of her, I saw I must address

An old man, in the radiant attire

Of that exalted company. His eyes

And cheeks suffused with reassuring fire

Of gracious joy, his aspect kind and wise,

He seemed a tender father. I, in haste,

Said “Where is she?” And gently he replied   70

“Beatrice, from her concern you would not waste

Your longing, sent me down here to your side

From my seat. If you’d know how she is placed,

Look up there to the third tier from the peak

And you’ll see her again, set on the throne

Her merits suit her for.” I did not speak,

But lifted up my eyes and saw her where

She made herself a crown fit to reflect

The everlasting beams. Here in our air,

The highest region, thundering unchecked,   80

Is not so far from mortal eye—not when

The eye is in the deep sea lost—as was

Beatrice in glory from my vision then,

And yet it made no odds to me, because

Her image was undimmed as it came down

To my eyes, since the air was pure between.

“Lady, aloft beneath your fitting crown,

In whom my hope found strength, and who has been

To Hell and left her footprints there for my

Salvation, let me say I recognise   90

Such grace and virtue was made actual by

Your power and goodness. You gave me the prize

Of loosened bondage, lending all the ways

And means at your command. In that same wise,

Preserve in me, until I end my days,

Your bounty, so the spirit you made whole

May leave the body you were pleased to know.”

That was my prayer, delivered from the soul,

And she, who seemed so far off, smiled, and though

She looked at me awhile, she turned once more   100

To the Eternal Fountain. The saint said

“In order that the path which lies before,

Your journey to the end, which you now tread,

Should be familiar to you and complete,

Fly with your eyes, and thus prepare your sight,

Through this tall garden, so you’re set to meet

The Radiance Divine as you gain height.

The Queen of Heaven, who has all my fire

Of love, will surely grant us every grace,

For I am Bernard, her most faithful squire,   110

Rewarded with the vision of her face.”

As some Croatian pilgrim who is shown,

In Rome, the Veronica (the handkerchief

That once, when Christ climbed his last hill alone,

A woman used to bring him some relief,

Mopping his brow), will say, within his mind,

“Lord Jesus Christ, true God, was this you?” such

Was I, since Bernard, when with humankind,

Had known, by contemplation, how to touch

On this peace. “Child of grace,” he said, “This state   120

Of joy you will not see if you should keep

Your eyes down here around the entrance gate.

You must look up as far as the most steep

Of circles till you see the Queen to whom

This realm is subject and devoted.” I

Lifted my gaze, and as there is more room

For light on the horizon where the sky

Is touched by sunrise in the morning than

There is where the sun sets, just so, when my

Eyes, from the valley where their climb began,   130

Attained the mountain top, I saw one part

Of the extreme edge far outshine the rest

Of that rim with its light. As at the start

Of sunrise, we see one place the more blessed

With fire, and on each side of that it shades

Away, just so that peaceful oriflamme—

Not the French flag for battles and parades—

Showed brighter in the middle, with a dam

To hold it back on either side. And at

That middle point, I saw, with outspread wings,   140

A thousand angels—no, far more than that—

In festival, each, in specific things

To do, and in its brightness, quite unique.

And smiling on their sports and songs, there reigned

A beauty, joy to all. If I could speak

As I imagine, yet I’d be constrained

To silence on the subject of the least

Suggestion of her splendour. Bernard saw

My eyes on her from whom he never ceased

To draw warmth, and he turned to her once more   150

His own eyes, with a love that made the thrill

Of my first sight of her more thrilling still.

CANTO 32

Absorbed in pleasure, that contemplative

Freely became a teacher, and began

His lesson. He had holy words to give.

“The wound that brought death to the Son of Man,

Which Mary closed with ointment, was first prised

Apart and then pierced through by that one there,

Seated below her feet. You’ve realised

That it is Eve, because she is so fair,

And here she is, redeemed. In the third row,

Below her, Rachel sits with Beatrice,   10

As you can see. Then Sarah you must know,

And then Rebecca. Judith has found peace,

And Ruth, great-grandmother to him that so

Grieved for his sin he didn’t sing, but cried

‘Have mercy on me.’ (Yes, King David.) Then,

You see there, as I name the sanctified,

The way they sit below and then again

Below, the holy women line by line

Down through the rose, all duly ranked from one

Soft petal to the next. See how they shine.   20

And from the seventh grade, as they have done

Above, the Hebrew women rank by rank

Divide the tresses of the flower, for they

Are like a wall, the wall we have to thank

For how it parts the sacred stair. The way

They looked on faith in Christ is what decides

The matter. On the one side, where the flower

Is in full bloom and not one space abides,

Sit those with faith that Christ, in all his power,

Would one day come. The other side holds those   30

Who saw he had. Not all of them as yet

Are there, so some half-circles of the rose

Are cut by vacant places. Like the set

Of tiers that comes down from the glorious seat

Of Heaven’s Queen, to constitute one edge

Of the divide, so, downward from the feet

Of great John, comes the other, ledge to ledge.

He, holy always, braved the wilderness

And martyrdom, and then, for two years, Hell,

Until Christ crucified eased his distress.   40

Below him, reading downward, we can tell

These seats were well assigned, for there we see

Thomas and Benedict and Augustine

And others in their multiplicity—

So many of these great ones there have been—

All the way down to here. Behold how deep

The sacred foresight was, for both aspects

Of faith shall equally take up the steep

Slopes of the garden, not as separate sects

But as two halves of one whole. Also note   50

How, anywhere below that level grade

That cuts the two lines of the upright moat,

Those have their seats who have not been arrayed

On their account, but for their parent’s worth,

Conditions being met: they were absolved

From their small bodies too close to their birth

To have a choice, or know what was involved,

And this you will yourself deduce from how

Their faces look, and how their voices sound

So childish, if you concentrate your brow   60

To look and listen. I see I astound

You with these words, for you are sore perplexed,

And in perplexity are silent. Thought—

One subtlety criss-crossing with the next,

So no clear line emerges as it ought—

Has made a hard knot you are trapped within.

I’ll loosen it. Nothing of any sort

Can here exist or even can begin

Subject to chance, which simply finds no place

In all this kingdom’s breadth, not any more   70

Than hunger, thirst or sorrow. All you face

Is soundly based upon eternal law:

The fit of ring to finger is exact.

It follows that all those who hastened here

To have their true life are not ranked, in fact,

As high and low, however it might appear.

The King through whom this realm rests in such love

And sheer delight that no desire may dare

To do more—making all minds, here above,

In His glad sight—bestows his gracious care   80

According to his wish. The facts fulfil

The proof of this, but Scripture tells you, too,

That, in the womb, the twins did not lie still,

But fought in anger, just as they would do

In later life. Esau and Jacob had

Their different colourings of head to prove

The guiding light that chose how each was clad

In hair, chose also how their souls would move

From birth to death, not by themselves inspired.

It’s not the merit of their doings, but   90

The keenness of the vision they acquired

In their first instant, that sees each one shut

Into the certain path—by Him desired,

Not them—that leads to the particular

Rank they hold here. In early times it was

The innocence of their young character

Abetted by their parent’s faith, gave cause

For their salvation, earned by those two things.

First age completed, males were circumcised,

Strength being lent to their unknowing wings   100

Solely by that, as if they’d been baptised;

But when the age of grace came, innocence

Was held below, unless it had been blessed

With baptism in its full Christian sense.

That said, look now on that face you think best

Resembles Christ, for only its intense

White light can show you Him.” I saw such joy

Rain down on her, borne in the holy minds

Created for those heights where they deploy

Their flight, that all the many different kinds   110

Of gladness I’d seen up till then had not

So held me in suspense and wonder, nor

Evinced such likeness to the Lord, and what

That loving spirit who had flown before

With his announcement did now was to spread

His wings before her and to sing again

“Hail Mary, full of grace.” On every side,

The blessed court sang their response to this

Divine song, every face filled with the tide

Of brightness in this canticle of bliss.   120

“My saintly father, bearing for my sake

The task of stepping down from that sweet place

Where you by lot eternal rightly take

Your seat, give me the name to match the face

Of that one angel gazing on the eyes

Of our Queen with such rapture, so enthralled

He seems on fire.” As you might surmise,

I well knew what that cavalier was called,

But wished more lessons from the man who drew

Beauty from Mary as the morning star   130

Draws beauty from the sun. He knew I knew,

But answered anyway. “Because you are

Still hungry, hear this. He is Gabriel

The herald. Every confidence that can

Exist, and every courtly ease as well,

Whether in angel or the soul of man,

Is found in him, and we would have it so,

For he’s the very one who brought the palm

To Earth for Mary, so that she might know

The son of God had sought her inner calm   140

To put the burden on of human flesh.

But follow with your eyes as I denote

Some you have seen but now will see afresh

In their right place: great nobles, though their coat

Of arms attests, in this empire of peace,

To mercy and to justice. Those two there,

Whose happiness no blessing could increase

Because it is the Empress that they share

For neighbour, are the two roots, as it were,

Of this rose. On her left, the father whose   150

Rash tasting first instilled in humankind

The bitter taste of all they stood to lose

Through sin, and on her right, the father of

Our Holy Church, to whom Christ gave the keys

Of this resplendent flower and all its love.

Beside him sits the one whose prophecies,

In his Apocalypse, foretold the grief

Of Christ’s fair bride, won with the lance and nails:

John the Evangelist, spurred by belief,

While still alive, to see beyond the veils   160

Of his own time. Beside the other rests

That leader whose weak, thankless, fickle flock

Were given manna though they failed all tests.

Opposite Peter in that central block

You can see Anna, mother of the Queen,

So well content to see her daughter, she

Still keeps her eyes where they have always been

While singing her hosannas constantly.

The first great family father sits across

From Lucy, she who sent your lady down   170

To help you when you were at such a loss

Your brow was not just furrowed with a frown,

But beaten to destruction. Since the time

Is flying now that holds you in your sleep,

We should pause to take stock here, as a prime

Tailor will cut his cloth so as to keep

The outlines of a coat within the bounds

Of what he has to work with. Let’s direct

Our eyes to where the Primal Love resounds

In silent light, so that your intellect   180

May enter, insofar as it’s allowed,

His mighty fire. But lest, perhaps, you fall

Short of that aim, recoiling with head bowed,

Yet still with beating wings, in spite of all

Still hoping to advance, grace must be won

From Her who has the power to see you through.

So follow me with love while this is done.

Lend your heart to my words, for they are true.”

And what he said next, I’ll now say to you.

CANTO 33

“Our Virgin Mother, daughter of your Son,”

St. Bernard prayed, “So low of birth and yet

Exalted so much more than anyone

On Earth or in the sky, forever set

As goal of the Church council, you are she

Who so ennobled human nature’s state

Its maker deigned to have His majesty

Made in its making. God’s love incarnate,

The same fire that first made this flower bloom—

The warmth pervading its eternal peace—   10

Was kindled once again within your womb.

Up here, for all of us, you never cease

To be the charitable torch of noon,

And down below you are hope’s living spring

For mortals. You, great lady, late and soon,

Are so supreme, he would be floundering

Who sought for grace and did not turn to you,

His wish without wings, without everything,

Despite whatever he might strive to do.

Your kind love comforts all who ask, and may   20

Often anticipate the asking. Through

Your goodness, all the good in any way

In every creature is combined. You are

All mercy, pity, bounty, joined in one.

This man, who comes to see you from so far

Below, the sky has never known the sun

In that pit of the universe, has seen

The spirits each and all. Now, by your grace,

He seeks the power to say his eyes have been

Still higher, even to the final place   30

Of his salvation. Never for my own

Great vision did I burn as now I burn

For his, but now I pray for him alone

That your prayers, prayers divine, will in their turn

Divest him of his every mortal cloud,

So that the joy supreme may be disclosed

To him. My Queen to whom all is allowed,

I pray that if you do what I’ve proposed,

You afterwards keep his affections pure,

The vision splendid having been achieved;   40

That you will guard him thenceforth to ensure

By human impulse he is not deceived

And led astray again. But now see how

Beatrice and all the others clap their hands:

It must be for my prayer.” The Queen’s eyes now

Made clear to us how well she understands

And cherishes our prayers. The eyes revered

And loved by God beheld her courtier

For long enough to prove his prayers endeared

Him further to her, but then went elsewhere—   50

Towards the Light Eternal, where no gaze

Other than hers so deeply penetrates,

As I, my own desires in their last phase

Where steady craving finally abates,

Already did what Bernard asked me to

By signing with a smile. I looked up. More

And more my sight, becoming pure and true,

Was entering the beam of that high store

Of light, itself true. From that moment on,

My vision outsoared all our powers of speech,   60

Which quail at such a sight and then are gone,

And memory fails, the task beyond its reach.

As he who sees all in a dream, but when

He wakes, finds just the passion has remained

In mind, and all the rest will not again

Come back to him, a spectacle retained

Only in feeling, such am I. It fades,

My vision, and yet still, within my heart,

The sweetness that was born from it cascades

In drops, a distillation, the last part   70

To melt, just as the snowdrift in the sun

Blurs outlines, and the Sybil’s oracle

That she wrote on the leaves, when she was done,

Was lost along the wind. Ah, if not all,

Give me at least a little, Light Supreme—

You that are raised above all mortal thought—

Of how you looked, so I might give a gleam—

And lend my tongue the power to report—

Of your great glory for those yet to come,

For if it comes back to my memory   80

At least in part, and some part of the sum

Lives in these lines, then so much more will be

Your triumph realised. I think that by

The sharpness that I suffered from the force

Of that ray’s vividness the chance was high

My eyesight, had it been turned from that course,

Would have been dazzled. Such, indeed, was why

I dared, I now recall, to face the light

Straight on, so long that all my sight was spent

Upon it. In its depths I saw, packed tight,   90

Bound in one book by love, all that is sent

Abroad throughout the universe as leaves

Torn out and scattered: single, separate things,

And any kind of quality that cleaves

To them and enters, and whatever brings

A partial framework to some area

Of all that multiplicity. But here

All things and links that ever were and are

Were fused together so they might appear

To me as one pure light. I know I saw   100

The universal form of this intact

Complexity, because my joy, the more

I tell of it, expands to mark the act

Of speaking. Thus a single moment holds

Me in a trance far deeper than those five

And twenty centuries have kept their folds

Around King Neptune, who must always strive

To comprehend what crossed his upward glance:

The shadow of the Argo. Thus my mind,

Held fast, gazed fixedly and not askance,   110

By thoughts rekindled of what it might find

Plumbing the crucible of happenstance.

For at that light, no man can turn aside—

Not by consent—to see aught else: the good,

The object of the will and our best guide,

Is gathered into it, and nothing could

Exist apart from it and not be called

Defective, for perfection can be sought

Only where all perfections are installed,

In that light. But my speech must now fall short   120

Even of what I can remember still.

An infant’s tongue still bathing at the breast

Could say more. As my eyes yet drank their fill

Of that light, things did not remain at rest:

Not that the light did not remain the same—

It always had one aspect, as before—

But as my sight, in gazing at the flame,

Gained strength, the single aspect the light wore

Was changing in my eyes as I was changed.

In that high flame’s deep and unblemished field   130

Three circles of three colours were arranged,

All of the same extent. One seemed to yield

Its lustre—as a pair of rainbows may—

To the other, and the third was made of fire

Breathed forth by the first two. What can I say?

Was this the trinity of my desire

Or was it not? Alas, how scant is speech,

Failing my concept by so very much!

And what I saw, that concept failed to reach

By such a distance, was so out of touch,   140

To call it “little” scarcely would suffice.

Eternal light, known to yourself alone,

Knowing yourself alone, once, twice and thrice,

In loving company yet on your own,

The self-renewing well of paradise

Forever! All the circling thus unloosed

Reflected light, which my eyes dwelt upon

And saw the way those swirling tints produced

A painted likeness that my eyes fixed on

Completely, for that likeness was of us.   150

Like the geometer who sets his soul

To square the circle and will not discuss

One thing besides, and yet—although the whole

Of what he knows is poured into the task—

Can’t find the necessary principle,

Just so was I when faced with that strange mask.

How was the image fitted to the full

Activity within the circle? Why

Should it be placed there? But my wings were not

Sufficient. It took faith’s flash to supply   160

My mind with that sharp blow by which it got

Its wish. Imagination, there on high—

Too high to breathe free, after such a climb—

Had lost its power; but now, just like a wheel

That spins so evenly it measures time

By space, the deepest wish that I could feel

And all my will, were turning with the love

That moves the sun and all the stars above.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My thanks are due to both of my publishers, Robert Weil at Liveright in New York, and Don Paterson at Picador in London. Each of them saw the text before it was finished and to neither of them did it occur that I might be overambitious for wanting to press on to a conclusion: or if it did, they didn’t say so. In America, Dennis Looney agreed to vet the text: not necessarily a comfortable offer from my angle, because his standards of scholarship are high. His numerous corrections on points of fact have all been incorporated into the text, and his remarks about interpretation have been listened to at the very least: sometimes, after thinking it over, I simply decided he was right, and sat down to recast a line or even more. I should insist, though, that any moments of excess or carelessness are my responsibility. For his scrutiny of my versification, once again I thank Don Paterson, who has supervised my last two books of verse for Picador: to have his fine ear on the case is a great privilege. An even greater privilege was to have my family looking after me when I fell ill. The actual translation was already done, but the whole business of finalizing the text has taken place during the period of my bad health, and if I had not been looked after I would not have lived to see the book made ready for the press. In that regard, my particular thanks should go to my elder daughter, Claerwen, who made crucial suggestions about the order of events in the preliminary pages.

ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

Born in Australia, Clive James lives in Cambridge, England. He is the author of Unreliable Memoirs; a volume of selected poems, Opal Sunset; and the best-selling Cultural Amnesia. He has written for the New York Times Book Review, The New Yorker and The Atlantic. He is an Officer of the Order of Australia (AO) and a Commander of the Order of the British Empire (CBE).

COPYRIGHT

Copyright © 2013 by Clive James

All rights reserved

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ALSO BY CLIVE JAMES

Autobiography

The Blaze of Obscurity

Unreliable Memoirs

Falling Towards England

May Week Was in June

North Face of Soho

Fiction

Brilliant Creatures

The Remake

The Man from Japan

The Silver Castle

Verse

The Book of My Enemy: Collected Verse 1958–2003

Opal Sunset: Selected Poems 1958–2008

Angels over Elsinore

Nefertiti in the Flak Tower

Criticism

Reliable Essays: The Best of Clive James

The Metropolitan Critic (new edition, 1994)

Visions Before Midnight

The Crystal Bucket

First Reactions

At the Pillars of Hercules

From the Land of Shadows

Glued to the Box

Snakecharmers in Texas

The Dreaming Swimmer

On Television

Even as We Speak

As of This Writing

The Meaning of Recognition

Cultural Amnesia

The Revolt of the Pendulum

A Point of View

Travel

Flying Visits