Part 13

myself less spent Than I in truth did feel me. “On,” I cried, “For I am stout and fearless.” Up the rock Our way we held, more rugged than before, Narrower and steeper far to climb. From talk I ceas’d not, as we journey’d, so to seem Least faint; whereat a voice from the other foss Did issue forth, for utt’rance suited ill. Though on the arch that crosses there I stood, What were the words I knew not, but who spake Seem’d mov’d in anger. Down I stoop’d to look, But my quick eye might reach not to the depth For shrouding darkness; wherefore thus I spake: “To the next circle, Teacher, bend thy steps, And from the wall dismount we; for as hence I hear and understand not, so I see Beneath, and naught discern.”—“I answer not,” Said he, “but by the deed. To fair request Silent performance maketh best return.” We from the bridge’s head descended, where To the eighth mound it joins, and then the chasm Opening to view, I saw a crowd within Of serpents terrible, so strange of shape And hideous, that remembrance in my veins Yet shrinks the vital current. Of her sands Let Lybia vaunt no more: if Jaculus, Pareas and Chelyder be her brood, Cenchris and Amphisboena, plagues so dire Or in such numbers swarming ne’er she shew’d, Not with all Ethiopia, and whate’er Above the Erythraean sea is spawn’d. Amid this dread exuberance of woe Ran naked spirits wing’d with horrid fear, Nor hope had they of crevice where to hide, Or heliotrope to charm them out of view. With serpents were their hands behind them bound, Which through their reins infix’d the tail and head Twisted in folds before. And lo! on one Near to our side, darted an adder up, And, where the neck is on the shoulders tied, Transpierc’d him. Far more quickly than e’er pen Wrote O or I, he kindled, burn’d, and chang’d To ashes, all pour’d out upon the earth. When there dissolv’d he lay, the dust again Uproll’d spontaneous, and the self-same form Instant resumed. So mighty sages tell, The Arabian Phoenix, when five hundred years Have well nigh circled, dies, and springs forthwith Renascent. Blade nor herb throughout his life He tastes, but tears of frankincense alone And odorous amomum: swaths of nard And myrrh his funeral shroud. As one that falls, He knows not how, by force demoniac dragg’d To earth, or through obstruction fettering up In chains invisible the powers of man, Who, risen from his trance, gazeth around, Bewilder’d with the monstrous agony He hath endur’d, and wildly staring sighs; So stood aghast the sinner when he rose. Oh! how severe God’s judgment, that deals out Such blows in stormy vengeance! Who he was My teacher next inquir’d, and thus in few He answer’d: “Vanni Fucci am I call’d, Not long since rained down from Tuscany To this dire gullet. Me the beastial life And not the human pleas’d, mule that I was, Who in Pistoia found my worthy den.” I then to Virgil: “Bid him stir not hence, And ask what crime did thrust him hither: once A man I knew him choleric and bloody.” The sinner heard and feign’d not, but towards me His mind directing and his face, wherein Was dismal shame depictur’d, thus he spake: “It grieves me more to have been caught by thee In this sad plight, which thou beholdest, than When I was taken from the other life. I have no power permitted to deny What thou inquirest.” I am doom’d thus low To dwell, for that the sacristy by me Was rifled of its goodly ornaments, And with the guilt another falsely charged. But that thou mayst not joy to see me thus, So as thou e’er shalt ’scape this darksome realm Open thine ears and hear what I forebode. Reft of the Neri first Pistoia pines, Then Florence changeth citizens and laws. From Valdimagra, drawn by wrathful Mars, A vapour rises, wrapt in turbid mists, And sharp and eager driveth on the storm With arrowy hurtling o’er Piceno’s field, Whence suddenly the cloud shall burst, and strike Each helpless Bianco prostrate to the ground. This have I told, that grief may rend thy heart.” CANTO XXV When he had spoke, the sinner rais’d his hands Pointed in mockery, and cried: “Take them, God! I level them at thee!” From that day forth The serpents were my friends; for round his neck One of then rolling twisted, as it said, “Be silent, tongue!” Another to his arms Upgliding, tied them, riveting itself So close, it took from them the power to move. Pistoia! Ah Pistoia! why dost doubt To turn thee into ashes, cumb’ring earth No longer, since in evil act so far Thou hast outdone thy seed? I did not mark, Through all the gloomy circles of the abyss, Spirit, that swell’d so proudly ’gainst his God, Not him, who headlong fell from Thebes. He fled, Nor utter’d more; and after him there came A centaur full of fury, shouting, “Where Where is the caitiff?” On Maremma’s marsh Swarm not the serpent tribe, as on his haunch They swarm’d, to where the human face begins. Behind his head upon the shoulders lay, With open wings, a dragon breathing fire On whomsoe’er he met. To me my guide: “Cacus is this, who underneath the rock Of Aventine spread oft a lake of blood. He, from his brethren parted, here must tread A different journey, for his fraudful theft Of the great herd, that near him stall’d; whence found His felon deeds their end, beneath the mace Of stout Alcides, that perchance laid on A hundred blows, and not the tenth was felt.” While yet he spake, the centaur sped away: And under us three spirits came, of whom Nor I nor he was ware, till they exclaim’d; “Say who are ye?” We then brake off discourse, Intent on these alone. I knew them not; But, as it chanceth oft, befell, that one Had need to name another. “Where,” said he, “Doth Cianfa lurk?” I, for a sign my guide Should stand attentive, plac’d against my lips The finger lifted. If, O reader! now Thou be not apt to credit what I tell, No marvel; for myself do scarce allow The witness of mine eyes. But as I looked Toward them, lo! a serpent with six feet Springs forth on one, and fastens full upon him: His midmost grasp’d the belly, a forefoot Seiz’d on each arm (while deep in either cheek He flesh’d his fangs); the hinder on the thighs Were spread, ’twixt which the tail inserted curl’d Upon the reins behind. Ivy ne’er clasp’d A dodder’d oak, as round the other’s limbs The hideous monster intertwin’d his own. Then, as they both had been of burning wax, Each melted into other, mingling hues, That which was either now was seen no more. Thus up the shrinking paper, ere it burns, A brown tint glides, not turning yet to black, And the clean white expires. The other two Look’d on exclaiming: “Ah, how dost thou change, Agnello! See! Thou art nor double now, “Nor only one.” The two heads now became One, and two figures blended in one form Appear’d, where both were lost. Of the four lengths Two arms were made: the belly and the chest The thighs and legs into such members chang’d, As never eye hath seen. Of former shape All trace was vanish’d. Two yet neither seem’d That image miscreate, and so pass’d on With tardy steps. As underneath the scourge Of the fierce dog-star, that lays bare the fields, Shifting from brake to brake, the lizard seems A flash of lightning, if he thwart the road, So toward th’ entrails of the other two Approaching seem’d, an adder all on fire, As the dark pepper-grain, livid and swart. In that part, whence our life is nourish’d first, One he transpierc’d; then down before him fell Stretch’d out. The pierced spirit look’d on him But spake not; yea stood motionless and yawn’d, As if by sleep or fev’rous fit assail’d. He ey’d the serpent, and the serpent him. One from the wound, the other from the mouth Breath’d a thick smoke, whose vap’ry columns join’d. Lucan in mute attention now may hear, Nor thy disastrous fate, Sabellus! tell, Nor shine, Nasidius! Ovid now be mute. What if in warbling fiction he record Cadmus and Arethusa, to a snake Him chang’d, and her into a fountain clear, I envy not; for never face to face Two natures thus transmuted did he sing, Wherein both shapes were ready to assume The other’s substance. They in mutual guise So answer’d, that the serpent split his train Divided to a fork, and the pierc’d spirit Drew close his steps together, legs and thighs Compacted, that no sign of juncture soon Was visible: the tail disparted took The figure which the spirit lost, its skin Soft’ning, his indurated to a rind. The shoulders next I mark’d, that ent’ring join’d The monster’s arm-pits, whose two shorter feet So lengthen’d, as the other’s dwindling shrunk. The feet behind then twisting up became That part that man conceals, which in the wretch Was cleft in twain. While both the shadowy smoke With a new colour veils, and generates Th’ excrescent pile on one, peeling it off From th’ other body, lo! upon his feet One upright rose, and prone the other fell. Not yet their glaring and malignant lamps Were shifted, though each feature chang’d beneath. Of him who stood erect, the mounting face Retreated towards the temples, and what there Superfluous matter came, shot out in ears From the smooth cheeks, the rest, not backward dragg’d, Of its excess did shape the nose; and swell’d Into due size protuberant the lips. He, on the earth who lay, meanwhile extends His sharpen’d visage, and draws down the ears Into the head, as doth the slug his horns. His tongue continuous before and apt For utt’rance, severs; and the other’s fork Closing unites. That done the smoke was laid. The soul, transform’d into the brute, glides off, Hissing along the vale, and after him The other talking sputters; but soon turn’d His new-grown shoulders on him, and in few Thus to another spake: “Along this path Crawling, as I have done, speed Buoso now!” So saw I fluctuate in successive change Th’ unsteady ballast of the seventh hold: And here if aught my tongue have swerv’d, events So strange may be its warrant. O’er mine eyes Confusion hung, and on my thoughts amaze. Yet ’scap’d they not so covertly, but well I mark’d Sciancato: he alone it was Of the three first that came, who chang’d not: thou, The other’s fate, Gaville, still dost rue. CANTO XXVI Florence exult! for thou so mightily Hast thriven, that o’er land and sea thy wings Thou beatest, and thy name spreads over hell! Among the plund’rers such the three I found Thy citizens, whence shame to me thy son, And no proud honour to thyself redounds. But if our minds, when dreaming near the dawn, Are of the truth presageful, thou ere long Shalt feel what Prato, (not to say the rest) Would fain might come upon thee; and that chance Were in good time, if it befell thee now. Would so it were, since it must needs befall! For as time wears me, I shall grieve the more. We from the depth departed; and my guide Remounting scal’d the flinty steps, which late We downward trac’d, and drew me up the steep. Pursuing thus our solitary way Among the crags and splinters of the rock, Sped not our feet without the help of hands. Then sorrow seiz’d me, which e’en now revives, As my thought turns again to what I saw, And, more than I am wont, I rein and curb The powers of nature in me, lest they run Where Virtue guides not; that if aught of good My gentle star, or something better gave me, I envy not myself the precious boon. As in that season, when the sun least veils His face that lightens all, what time the fly Gives way to the shrill gnat, the peasant then Upon some cliff reclin’d, beneath him sees Fire-flies innumerous spangling o’er the vale, Vineyard or tilth, where his day-labour lies: With flames so numberless throughout its space Shone the eighth chasm, apparent, when the depth Was to my view expos’d. As he, whose wrongs The bears aveng’d, at its departure saw Elijah’s chari