Part 14

ot, when the steeds erect Rais’d their steep flight for heav’n; his eyes meanwhile, Straining pursu’d them, till the flame alone Upsoaring like a misty speck he kenn’d; E’en thus along the gulf moves every flame, A sinner so enfolded close in each, That none exhibits token of the theft. Upon the bridge I forward bent to look, And grasp’d a flinty mass, or else had fall’n, Though push’d not from the height. The guide, who mark’d How I did gaze attentive, thus began: “Within these ardours are the spirits, each Swath’d in confining fire.”—“Master, thy word,” I answer’d, “hath assur’d me; yet I deem’d Already of the truth, already wish’d To ask thee, who is in yon fire, that comes So parted at the summit, as it seem’d Ascending from that funeral pile, where lay The Theban brothers?” He replied: “Within Ulysses there and Diomede endure Their penal tortures, thus to vengeance now Together hasting, as erewhile to wrath. These in the flame with ceaseless groans deplore The ambush of the horse, that open’d wide A portal for that goodly seed to pass, Which sow’d imperial Rome; nor less the guile Lament they, whence of her Achilles ’reft Deidamia yet in death complains. And there is rued the stratagem, that Troy Of her Palladium spoil’d.”—“If they have power Of utt’rance from within these sparks,” said I, “O master! think my prayer a thousand fold In repetition urg’d, that thou vouchsafe To pause, till here the horned flame arrive. See, how toward it with desire I bend.” He thus: “Thy prayer is worthy of much praise, And I accept it therefore: but do thou Thy tongue refrain: to question them be mine, For I divine thy wish: and they perchance, For they were Greeks, might shun discourse with thee.” When there the flame had come, where time and place Seem’d fitting to my guide, he thus began: “O ye, who dwell two spirits in one fire! If living I of you did merit aught, Whate’er the measure were of that desert, When in the world my lofty strain I pour’d, Move ye not on, till one of you unfold In what clime death o’ertook him self-destroy’d.” Of the old flame forthwith the greater horn Began to roll, murmuring, as a fire That labours with the wind, then to and fro Wagging the top, as a tongue uttering sounds, Threw out its voice, and spake: “When I escap’d From Circe, who beyond a circling year Had held me near Caieta, by her charms, Ere thus Aeneas yet had nam’d the shore, Nor fondness for my son, nor reverence Of my old father, nor return of love, That should have crown’d Penelope with joy, Could overcome in me the zeal I had T’ explore the world, and search the ways of life, Man’s evil and his virtue. Forth I sail’d Into the deep illimitable main, With but one bark, and the small faithful band That yet cleav’d to me. As Iberia far, Far as Morocco either shore I saw, And the Sardinian and each isle beside Which round that ocean bathes. Tardy with age Were I and my companions, when we came To the strait pass, where Hercules ordain’d The bound’ries not to be o’erstepp’d by man. The walls of Seville to my right I left, On the other hand already Ceuta past. “O brothers!” I began, “who to the west Through perils without number now have reach’d, To this the short remaining watch, that yet Our senses have to wake, refuse not proof Of the unpeopled world, following the track Of Phoebus. Call to mind from whence we sprang: Ye were not form’d to live the life of brutes But virtue to pursue and knowledge high.” With these few words I sharpen’d for the voyage The mind of my associates, that I then Could scarcely have withheld them. To the dawn Our poop we turn’d, and for the witless flight Made our oars wings, still gaining on the left. Each star of the other pole night now beheld, And ours so low, that from the ocean-floor It rose not. Five times re-illum’d, as oft Vanish’d the light from underneath the moon Since the deep way we enter’d, when from far Appear’d a mountain dim, loftiest methought Of all I e’er beheld. Joy seiz’d us straight, But soon to mourning changed. From the new land A whirlwind sprung, and at her foremost side Did strike the vessel. Thrice it whirl’d her round With all the waves, the fourth time lifted up The poop, and sank the prow: so fate decreed: And over us the booming billow clos’d.” CANTO XVII Now upward rose the flame, and still’d its light To speak no more, and now pass’d on with leave From the mild poet gain’d, when following came Another, from whose top a sound confus’d, Forth issuing, drew our eyes that way to look. As the Sicilian bull, that rightfully His cries first echoed, who had shap’d its mould, Did so rebellow, with the voice of him Tormented, that the brazen monster seem’d Pierc’d through with pain; thus while no way they found Nor avenue immediate through the flame, Into its language turn’d the dismal words: But soon as they had won their passage forth, Up from the point, which vibrating obey’d Their motion at the tongue, these sounds we heard: “O thou! to whom I now direct my voice! That lately didst exclaim in Lombard phrase, ‘Depart thou, I solicit thee no more,’ Though somewhat tardy I perchance arrive Let it not irk thee here to pause awhile, And with me parley: lo! it irks not me And yet I burn. If but e’en now thou fall into this blind world, from that pleasant land Of Latium, whence I draw my sum of guilt, Tell me if those, who in Romagna dwell, Have peace or war. For of the mountains there Was I, betwixt Urbino and the height, Whence Tyber first unlocks his mighty flood.” Leaning I listen’d yet with heedful ear, When, as he touch’d my side, the leader thus: “Speak thou: he is a Latian.” My reply Was ready, and I spake without delay: “O spirit! who art hidden here below! Never was thy Romagna without war In her proud tyrants’ bosoms, nor is now: But open war there left I none. The state, Ravenna hath maintain’d this many a year, Is steadfast. There Polenta’s eagle broods, And in his broad circumference of plume O’ershadows Cervia. The green talons grasp The land, that stood erewhile the proof so long, And pil’d in bloody heap the host of France. “The old mastiff of Verruchio and the young, That tore Montagna in their wrath, still make, Where they are wont, an augre of their fangs. “Lamone’s city and Santerno’s range Under the lion of the snowy lair. Inconstant partisan! that changeth sides, Or ever summer yields to winter’s frost. And she, whose flank is wash’d of Savio’s wave, As ’twixt the level and the steep she lies, Lives so ’twixt tyrant power and liberty. “Now tell us, I entreat thee, who art thou? Be not more hard than others. In the world, So may thy name still rear its forehead high.” Then roar’d awhile the fire, its sharpen’d point On either side wav’d, and thus breath’d at last: “If I did think, my answer were to one, Who ever could return unto the world, This flame should rest unshaken. But since ne’er, If true be told me, any from this depth Has found his upward way, I answer thee, Nor fear lest infamy record the words. “A man of arms at first, I cloth’d me then In good Saint Francis’ girdle, hoping so T’ have made amends. And certainly my hope Had fail’d not, but that he, whom curses light on, The high priest again seduc’d me into sin. And how and wherefore listen while I tell. Long as this spirit mov’d the bones and pulp My mother gave me, less my deeds bespake The nature of the lion than the fox. All ways of winding subtlety I knew, And with such art conducted, that the sound Reach’d the world’s limit. Soon as to that part Of life I found me come, when each behoves To lower sails and gather in the lines; That which before had pleased me then I rued, And to repentance and confession turn’d; Wretch that I was! and well it had bested me! The chief of the new Pharisees meantime, Waging his warfare near the Lateran, Not with the Saracens or Jews (his foes All Christians were, nor against Acre one Had fought, nor traffic’d in the Soldan’s land), He his great charge nor sacred ministry In himself, rev’renc’d, nor in me that cord, Which us’d to mark with leanness whom it girded. As in Socrate, Constantine besought To cure his leprosy Sylvester’s aid, So me to cure the fever of his pride This man besought: my counsel to that end He ask’d: and I was silent: for his words Seem’d drunken: but forthwith he thus resum’d: “From thy heart banish fear: of all offence I hitherto absolve thee. In return, Teach me my purpose so to execute, That Penestrino cumber earth no more. Heav’n, as thou knowest, I have power to shut And open: and the keys are therefore twain, The which my predecessor meanly priz’d.” Then, yielding to the forceful arguments, Of silence as more perilous I deem’d, And answer’d: “Father! since thou washest me Clear of that guilt wherein I now must fall, Large promise with performance scant, be sure, Shall make thee triumph in thy lofty seat.” “When I was number’d with the dead, then came Saint Francis for me; but a cherub dark He met, who cried: “‘Wrong me not; he is mine, And must below to join the wretched crew, For the deceitful counsel which he gave. E’er since I watch’d him, hov’ring at his hair, No power can the impenitent absolve; Nor to repent and will at once consist, By contradiction absolute forbid.” Oh mis’ry! how I shook myself, when he Seiz’d me, and cried, “Thou haply thought’st me not A disputant in logic so exact.” To Minos down he bore me, and the judge Twin’d eight times round his callous back the tail, Which biting with excess of rage, he spake: ‘This is a guilty soul, that in the fire Must vanish.’ Hence perdition-doom’d I rove A prey to rankling sorrow in this garb.” When he had thus fulfill’d his words, the flame In dolour parted, beating to and fro, And writhing its sharp horn. We onward went, I and my leader, up along the rock, Far as another arch, that overhangs The foss, wherein the penalty is paid Of those, who load them with committed sin. CANTO XXVIII Who, e’en in words unfetter’d, might at full Tell of the wounds and blood that now I saw, Though he repeated oft the tale? No tongue So vast a theme could equal, speech and thought Both impotent alike. If in one band Collected, stood the people all, who e’er Pour’d on Apulia’s happy soil their blood, Slain by the Trojans, and in that long war When of the rings the measur’d booty made A pile so high, as Rome’s historian writes Who errs not, with the multitude, that felt The grinding force of Guiscard’s Norman steel, And those the rest, whose bones are gather’d yet At Ceperano, there where treachery Branded th’ Apulian name, or where beyond Thy walls, O Tagliacozzo, without arms The old Alardo conquer’d; and his limbs One were to show transpierc’d, another his Clean lopt away; a spectacle like this Were but a thing of nought, to the hideous sight Of the ninth chasm. A rundlet, that hath lost Its middle or side stave, gapes not so wide, As one I mark’d, torn from the chin throughout Down to the hinder passage: ’twixt the legs Dangling his entrails hung, the midriff lay Open to view, and wretched ventricle, That turns th’ englutted aliment to dross. Whilst eagerly I fix on him my gaze, He ey’d me, with his hands laid his breast bare, And cried; “Now mark how I do rip me! lo! “How is Mohammed mangled! before me Walks Ali weeping, from the chin his face Cleft to the forelock; and the others all Whom here thou seest, while they liv’d, did sow Scandal and schism, and therefore thus are rent. A fiend is here behind, who with his sword Hacks us thus cruelly, slivering again Each of this ream, when we have compast round The dismal way, for first our gashes close Ere we repass before him. But say who Art thou, that standest musing on