CANTO XXXIII.

The Earthly Paradise.—Prophecy of Beatrice concerning one who shall

restore the Empire.—Her discourse with Dante.—The river Eunoe.—Dante

drinks of it, and is fit to ascend to Heaven.

PURGATORY

CANTO I.

Invocation to the Muses.—Dawn of Easter on the shore of Purgatory.—The

Four Stars.—Cato.—The cleansing of Dante from the stains of Hell.

To run over better waters the little vessel of my genius now hoists its

sails, and leaves behind itself a sea so cruel; and I will sing of that

second realm where the human spirit is purified and becomes worthy to

ascend to heaven.

But here let dead poesy rise again, O holy Muses, since yours I am, and

here let Calliope somewhat mount up, accompanying my song with that

sound of which the wretched Picae felt the stroke such that they

despaired of pardon.[1]

[1] The nine daughters of Pieros, king of Emathia, who, contending in

song with the Muses, were for their presumption changed to magpies.

A sweet color of oriental sapphire, which was gathering in the serene

aspect of the sky, pure even to the first circle,[1] renewed delight to

my eyes soon as I issued forth from the dead air that had afflicted my

eyes and my breast. The fair planet which incites to love was making

all the Orient to smile, veiling the Fishes that were in her train.[2]

I turned me to the right hand, and fixed my mind upon the other pole,

and saw four stars never seen save by the first people.[3] The heavens

appeared to rejoice in their flamelets. O widowed northern region,

since thou art deprived of beholding these!

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

[2] At the spring equinox Venus is in the sign of the Pisces, which

immediately precedes that of Aries, in which is the Sun. The time

indicated is therefore an hour or more before sunrise on Easter

morning, April 10.

When I had withdrawn from regarding them, turning me a little to the

other pole, there whence the Wain had already disappeared, I saw close

to me an old man alone, worthy in look of so much reverence that no son

owes more unto his father.[1] He wore a long beard and mingled with

white hair, like his locks, of which a double list fell upon his

breast. The rays of the four holy stars so adorned his face with light,

that I saw him, as if the sun had been in front.

[1] These stars are the symbols of the four Cardinal Virtues,—Prudence,

Temperance, Fortitude, and Justice,—the virtues of active life,

sufficient to guide men in the right path, but not to bring them to

Paradise. By the first people arc probably meant Adam and Eve, who from

the terrestrial Paradise, on the summit of the Mount of Purgatory, had

seen these stars, visible only from the Southern hemisphere. According

to the geography of the time Asia and Africa lay north of the equator,

so that even to their inhabitants these stars were invisible. Possibly

the meaning is that these stars, symbolizing the cardinal virtues, had

been visible only in the golden age.

This old man, as soon appears, is the younger Cato, and the office here

given to him of warden of the souls in the outer region of Purgatory

was suggested by the position assigned to him by Virgil in the Aeneid,

viii. 670. “Secretosque pios, his dantem jura Catonem.”

It has been objected to Virgil’s thus putting him in Elysium, that as a

suicide his place was in the Mourning Fields. A similar objection may

be made to Dante’s separating him from the other suicides in the

seventh circle of Hell (Canto XIII.). “But,” says Conington, “Virgil

did not aim at perfect consistency. It was enough for him that Cato was

one who from his character in life might be justly conceived of as

lawgiver to the dead.” So Dante, using Cato as an allegoric figure,

regards him as one who, before the coming of Christ, practised the

virtues which are required to liberate the soul from sin, and who, as

be says in the De Monarchia (ii. 5), “that he might kindle the love of

liberty in the world, showed how precious it was, by preferring death

with liberty to life without it.” This liberty is the type of that

spiritual freedom which Dante is seeking, and which, being the perfect

conformity of the human will to the will of God, is the aim and

fruition of nil redeemed souls.

In the region of Purgatory outside the gate, the souls have not yet

attained this freedom; they are on the way to it, and Cato is

allegorically fit to warn and spur them on.

“Who are ye that counter to the blind stream have fled from the eternal

prison?” said he, moving those venerable plumes. “Who has guided you?

Or who was a lamp to you, issuing forth from the deep night that ever

makes the infernal valley black? Are the laws of the abyss thus broken?

or is a new design changed in heaven that, being damned, ye come unto

my rocks?”

My Leader then took hold of me, and with words, and with hands, and

with signs, made my legs and my brow reverent. Then he answered him,

“Of myself I came not; a Lady descended from Heaven, through whose

prayers I succored this man with my company. But since it is thy will

that more of our condition be unfolded to thee as it truly is, mine

cannot be that to thee this be denied. This man has not seen his last

evening, but through his folly was so near thereto that very little

time there was to turn. Even as I have said, I was sent to him to

rescue him, and there was no other way than this, along which I have

set myself. I have shown to him all the guilty people; and now I intend

to show him those spirits that purge themselves under thy ward. How I

have led him, it would be long to tell thee; from on high descends

power that aids me to conduct him to see thee and to hear thee. Now may

it please thee to approve his coming. He goes seeking liberty, which is

so dear, as he knows who for her refuses life. Thou knowest it, for

death for her sake was not hitter to thee in Utica, where thou didst

leave the garment that on the great day shall he so bright. The eternal

edicts are not violated by us, for this one is alive, and Minos does

not bind me; but I am of the circle where are the chaste eyes of thy

Marcia, who in her look still prays thee, O holy breast, that for thine

own thou hold her. For her love, then, incline thyself to us; let us go

on through thy seven realms.[1] Thanks unto thee will I carry back to

her, if to be mentioned there below thou deign.”

[1] The seven circles of Purgatory.

“Marcia so pleased my eyes while I was on earth,” said he then, “that

whatsoever grace she wished from me I did it; now, that on the other

side of the evil stream she dwells, she can no more move me, by that

law which was made when thence I issued forth.[1] But if a Lady of

heaven move and direct thee, as thou sayest, there is no need of

flattery; suffice it fully to thee that for her sake thou askest me. Go

then, and see thou gird this one with a smooth rush, and that thou wash

his face so that thou remove all sully from it, for it were not

befitting to go with eye overcast by any cloud before the first

minister that is of those of Paradise. This little island, round about

at its base, down there yonder where the wave heats it, bears rushes

upon its soft ooze. No plant of other kind, that might put forth leaf

or grow hard, can there have life, because it yields not to the shocks.

Thereafter let not your return be this way; the Sun which now is rising

will show you to take the mountain by easier ascent.”

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

affections.

So he disappeared, and I rose up, without speaking, and drew me close

to my Leader, and turned my eyes to him. He began, “Son, follow my

steps; let us turn back, for this plain slopes that way to its low

limits.”

The dawn was vanquishing the matin hour which fled before it, so that

from afar I discerned the trembling of the sea. We set forth over the

solitary plain like a man who turns unto the road which he has lost,

and, till he come to it, seems to himself to go in vain. When we were

where the dew contends with the sun, and, through being in a place

where there is shade, is little dissipated, my Master softly placed

both his hands outspread upon the grass. Whereon I, who perceived his

design, stretched toward him my tear-stained cheeks. Here he wholly

uncovered that color of mine which hell had hidden on me.[1]

[1] Allegorically, when the soul has entered upon the way of

purification Reason, with the dew of repentance, washes off the stain

of sin, and girds the spirit with humility.

We came, then, to the desert shore that never saw navigate its waters

one who afterwards had experience of return. Here he girt me, even as

pleased the other. O marvel! that such as he plucked the humble plant,

it instantly sprang up again there whence he tore it.[1]

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

CANTO II.

Sunrise.—The Poets on the shore.—Coming of a boat, guided by an angel,

bearing souls to Purgatory.—Their landing.—Casella and his song.—Cato

hurries the souls to the mountain.

Now had the sun reached the horizon whose meridian circle covers

Jerusalem with its highest point; and the night which circles opposite

to it was issuing forth from Ganges with the Scales that fall from her

hand when she exceeds;[1] so that where I was the white and red cheeks

of the beautiful Aurora by too much age were becoming orange.

[1] Purgatory and Jerusalem are antipodal, and in one direction the

Ganges or India was arbitrarily assumed to be their common horizon. The

night is here taken as the point of the Heavens opposite the sun, and

the sun being in Aries, the night is in Libra. When night exceeds, that

is, at the autumnal equinox, when the night becomes longer than the

day, the Scales may be said to drop from her hand, since the sun enters

Libra.

We were still alongside the sea, like folk who are thinking of their

road, who go in heart and linger in body; and lo! as, at approach of

the morning, through the dense vapors Mars glows ruddy, down in the

west above the ocean floor, such appeared to me,—so may I again behold

it!—a light along the sea coming so swiftly that no flight equals its

motion. From which when I had a little withdrawn my eye to ask my

Leader, again I saw it, brighter become and larger. Then on each side

of it appeared to me a something, I know not what, white, and beneath,

little by little, another came forth from it. My Master still said not

a word, until the first white things showed themselves wings; then,

When he clearly recognized the pilot, he cried out, “Mind, mind, thou

bend thy knees. Lo! the Angel of God: fold thy hands; henceforth shalt

thou see such officials. See how he scorns human means, so that he

wills not oar, or other sail than his own wings between such distant

shores. See, how he holds them straight toward heaven, stroking the air

with his eternal feathers that are not changed like mortal hair.”

Then, as nearer and nearer toward us came the Bird Divine, the brighter

he appeared; so that near by my eye endured him not, but I bent it

down: and he came on to the shore with a small vessel, very swift and

light so that the water swallowed naught of it. At the stern stood the

Celestial Pilot, such that if but described he would make blessed; and

more than a hundred spirits sat within. “In exitu Israel de Egypto”[1]

they all were singing together with one voice, with whatso of that

psalm is after written. Then he made the sign of holy cross upon them;

whereon they all threw themselves upon the strand; and he went away

swift as he had come.

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

The crowd which remained there seemed strange to the place, gazing

round about like him who of new things makes essay. On all sides the

Sun, who had with his bright arrows chased from midheaven the

Capricorn,[1] was shooting forth the day, when the new people raised

their brow toward us, saying to us, “If ye know, show us the way to go

unto the mountain.” And Virgil answered, “Ye believe, perchance, that

we are acquainted with this place, but we are pilgrims even as ye are.

Just now we came, a little before you, by another way, which was so

rough and difficult that the ascent henceforth will seem play to us.

[1] When Aries, in which the Sun was rising, is on the horizon,

Capricorn is at the zenith.

The souls who had become aware concerning me by my breathing, that I

was still alive, marvelling became deadly pale. And as to a messenger

who bears an olive branch the folk press to hear news, and no one shows

himself shy of crowding, so, at the sight of me, those fortunate souls

stopped still, all of them, as if forgetting to go to make themselves

fair.

I saw one of them drawing forward to embrace me with so great affection

that it moved me to do the like. O shades empty save in aspect! Three

times behind it I clasped my hands and as oft returned with them unto

my breast. With marvel, I believe, I painted me; wherefore the shade

smiled and drew back, and I, following it, pressed forward, Gently it

said, that I should pause; then I knew who it was, and I prayed it that

to speak with me it would stop a little. It replied to me, “So as I

loved thee in the mortal body, so loosed from it I love thee; therefore

I stop; but wherefore goest thou?”

“Casella mine, in order to return another time to this place where I

am, do I make this journey,” said I, “but from thee how has so much

time been taken?”[1]

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

And he to me, “No wrong has been done me if he[1] who takes both when

and whom it pleases him ofttimes hath denied to me this passage; for of

a just will[2] his own is made. Truly for three months he has taken

with all peace whoso has wished to enter. Wherefore I who was now

turned to the seashore where the water of Tiber grows salt was

benignantly received by him.[3] To that outlet has he now turned his

wing, because always those assemble there who towards Acheron do not

descend.”

[1] The Celestial Pilot.

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

motive of the delay.

[3] The Tiber is the local symbol of the Church of Rome, from whose

bosom those who die at peace with her pass to Purgatory. The Jubilee,

proclaimed by Boniface VIII., had begun at Christmas, 1299, so that for

three months now the Celestial Pilot had received graciously all who

had taken advantage of it to gain remission of their sins.

And I, “If a new law take not from thee memory or practice of the song

of love which was wont to quiet in me all my longings, may it please

thee therewith somewhat to comfort my soul, which coming hither with

its body is so wearied.”

“Love which in my mind discourseth with me,”[1] began he then so

sweetly that the sweetness still within me sounds.[2] My Master, and I,

and that folk who were with him, appeared so content as if naught else

could touch the mind of any.

[1] The first verse of a canzone by Dante; the canzone is the second of

those upon which he comments in his Convito.

[2] Every English reader recalls Milton’s Sonnet to Mr. Henry Lawes:—

“Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher

Than his Casella, whom he woo’d to sing,

Met in the milder shades of purgatory.”

Nothing is known of Casella beyond what is implied in Dante’s

affectionate record of their meeting.

We were all fixed and attentive to his notes; and lo! the venerable old

man crying, “What is this, ye laggard spirits? What negligence, what

stay is this? Run to the mountain to strip off the slough that lets not

God be manifest to you.”

As, when gathering grain or tare, the doves assembled at their feeding,

quiet, without display of their accustomed pride, if aught appear of

which they are afraid, suddenly let the food alone, because they are

assailed by a greater care, so I saw that fresh troop leave the song,

and go towards the hill-side, like one that goes but knows not where he

may come out. Nor was our departure less speedy.

CANTO III.

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

Church.—Manfred.

Inasmuch as the sudden flight had scattered them over the plain, turned

to the mount whereto reason spurs us, I drew me close to my trusty

companion. And how should I without him have run? Who would have drawn

me up over the mountain? He seemed to me of his own self remorseful. O

conscience, upright and stainless, how bitter a sting to thee is little

fault!

When his feet left the haste that takes the seemliness from every act,

my mind, which at first had been restrained, let loose its attention,

as though eager, and I turned my face unto the hill that towards the

heaven rises highest from the sea. The sun, which behind was flaming

ruddy, was broken in front of me by the figure that the staying of its

rays upon me formed. When I saw the ground darkened only in front of

me, I turned me to my side with fear of being abandoned: and my

Comfort, wholly turning to me, began to say, “Why dost thou still

distrust? Dost thou not believe me with thee, and that I guide thee? It

is now evening there where the body is buried within which I cast a

shadow; Naples holds it, and from Brundusium it is taken; if now in

front of me there is no shadow, marvel not more than at the heavens of

which one hinders not the other’s radiance. To suffer torments, both

hot and cold, bodies like this the Power ordains, which wills not that

how it acts be revealed to us. Mad is he who hopes that our reason can

traverse the infinite way which One Substance in Three Persons holds.

Be content, human race, with the quia;[1]; for if ye had been able to

see everything, need had not been for Mary to hear child: and ye have

seen desiring fruitlessly men such[2] that their desire would have

been quieted, which is given them eternally for a grief. I speak of

Aristotle and of Plato, and of many others;” and here he bowed his

front, and said no more, and remained disturbed.

[1] Quic is used here, as often in mediaeval Latin, for quod. The

meaning is, Be content to know that the thing is, seek not to know WHY

or HOW—propter quid—it is as it is.

[2] If human knowledge sufficed.

We had come, meanwhile, to the foot of the mountain; here we found the

rock so steep, that there the legs would be agile in vain. Between

Lerici and Turbia[1] the most deserted, the most secluded way is a

stair easy and open, compared with that. “Now who knows on which hand

the hillside slopes,” said my Master, staying his step, “so that he can

ascend who goeth without wings?”

[1] Lerici on the Gulf of Spezzia, and Turbia, just above Monaco, are

at the two ends of the Riviera; between them the mountains rise steeply

from the shore, along which in Dante’s time there was no road.

And while he was holding his face low, questioning his mind about the

road, and I was looking up around the rock, on the left hand appeared

to me a company of souls who were moving their feet towards us, and

seemed not, so slowly were they coming. “Lift,” said I to the Master,

“thine eyes, lo! on this side who will give us counsel, if thou from

thyself canst not have it.” He looked at them, and with air of relief,

answered, “Let us go thither, for they come slowly, and do thou confirm

thy hope, sweet son.

That people was still as far, I mean after a thousand steps of ours, as

a good thrower would cast with his hand, when they all pressed up to

the hard masses of the high bank, and stood still and close, as one who

goes in doubt stops to look.[1] “O ye who have made good ends, O

spirits already elect,” Virgil began, “by that peace which I believe is

awaited by you all, tell us, where the mountain lies so that the going

up is possible; for to lose time is most displeasing to him who knows

most.”

[1] They stopped, surprised, at seeing Virgil and Dante advancing to

the left, against the rule in Purgatory, where the course is always to

the right, symbolizing progress in good. In Hell the contrary rule

holds.

As the sheep come forth from the fold by ones, and twos, and threes,

and the others stand timid, holding eye and muzzle to the ground; and

what the first does the others also do, huddling themselves to her if

she stop, silly and quiet, and wherefore know not; so I saw then moving

to approach, the head of that fortunate flock, modest in face and

dignified in gait.

When those in front saw the light broken on the ground at my right

side, so that the shadow fell from me on the cliff, they stopped, and

drew somewhat back; and all the rest who were coming behind, not

knowing why, did just the same. “Without your asking, I confess to you

that this is a human body which you see, whereby the light of the sun

on the ground is cleft. Marvel not thereat, but believe that not

without power that comes from heaven he seeks to surmount this wall.”

Thus the Master:and that worthy people said, “Turn, enter in advance,

then;” with the backs of their hands making sign. And one of them

began, “Whoever thou art, turn thy face as thou thus goest; consider if

in the world thou didst ever see me?” I turned me toward him, and

looked at him fixedly: blond he was, and beautiful, and of gentle

aspect, but a blow had divided one of his eyebrows.

When I had humbly disclaimed having ever seen him, he said, “Now look!”

and he showed me a wound at the top of his breast. Then he said,

smiling, “I am Manfred,[1] grandson of the Empress Constance; wherefore

I pray thee, that when thou returnest, thou go to my beautiful

daughter,[2] mother of the honor of Sicily and of Aragon, and tell to

her the truth if aught else be told. After I had my body broken by two

mortal stabs, I rendered myself, weeping, to Him who pardons willingly.

Horrible were my sins, but the Infinite Goodness has such wide arms

that it takes whatever turns to it. If the Pastor of Cosenza,[3] who

was set on the hunt of me by Clement, had then rightly read this page

in God, the bones of my body would still be at the head of the bridge

near Benevento, under the guard of the heavy cairn. Now the rain bathes

them, and the wind moves them forth from the kingdom, almost along the

Verde, whither he transferred them with extinguished light.[4] By their

[5] malediction the Eternal Love is not so lost that it cannot return,

while hope hath speck of green. True is it, that whoso dies in

contumacy of Holy Church, though he repent him at the end, needs must

stay outside[6] upon this bank thirtyfold the whole time that he has

been in his presumption,[7] if such decree become not shorter through

good prayers. See now if thou canst make me glad, revealing to my good

Constance how thou hast seen me, and also this prohibition,[8] for here

through those on earth much is gained.”

[1] The natural son of the Emperor Frederick II. He was born in 1231;

in 1258 he was crowned King of Sicily. In 1263 Charles of Anjou was

called by Pope Urban IV. to contend against him, and in 1266 Manfred

was killed at the battle of Benevento.

[2] Constance, the daughter of Manfred, was married to Peter of Aragon.

She had three sons, Alphonso, James, and Frederick. Alphonso succeeded

his father in Aragon, and James in Sicily, but after the death of

Alphonso James became King of Aragon. and Frederick King of Sicily.

Manfred naturally speaks favorably of them, but Dante himself thought

ill of James and Frederick. See Canto VII., towards the end.

[3] The Archbishop of Cosenza, at command of the Pope, Clement IV.,

took the body of Manfred from his grave near Benevento, and threw it

unburied, as the body of one excommunicated, on the bank of the Verde.

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

[5] That is, of Pope or Bishop.

[6] Outside the gate of Purgatory.

[7] This seems to be a doctrine peculiar to Dante. The value of the

prayers of the good on earth in shortening the period of suffering of

the souls in Purgatory is more than once referred to by him, as well as

the virtue of the intercession of the souls in Purgatory for the

benefit of the living.

[8] The prohibition of entering within Purgatory.

CANTO IV.

Ante-Purgatory.—Ascent to a shelf of the mountain.—The negligent, who

postponed repentance to the last hour.—Belacqua.

When through delights, or through pains which some power of ours may

experience, the soul is all concentrated thereon, it seems that to no

other faculty it may attend; and this is counter to the error which

believes that one soul above another is kindled in us.[1] And

therefore, when a thing is heard or seen, which may hold the soul

intently turned to it, the time passes, and the man observes it not:

for one faculty is that which listens, and another is that which keeps

the soul entire; the latter is as it were bound, and the former is

loosed.

[1] Were it true that, as according to the Platonists, there were more

than one soul in man, he might give attention to two things at once.

But when one faculty is free and called into activity, the rest of the

soul is as it were bound in inaction.

Of this had I true experience, hearing that spirit and wondering; for

full fifty degrees had the sun ascended,[1] and I had not noticed it,

when we came where those souls all together cried out to us, “Here is

what you ask.”

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

A larger opening the man of the farm often hedges up with a forkful of

his thorns, when the grape grows dark, than was the passage through

which my Leader and I behind ascended alone, when the troop departed

from us. One goes to Sanleo, and descends to Noli, one mounts up

Bismantova[1] to its peak, with only the feet; but here it behoves that

one fly, I mean with the swift wings and with the feathers of great

desire, behind that guide who gave me hope and made a light for me. We

ascended in through the broken rock, and on each side the border

pressed on us, and the ground beneath required both feet and hands.

[1] These all are places difficult of access.

When we were upon the upper edge of the high bank on the open slope,

“My Master,” said I, “what way shall we take?” And he to me, “Let no

step of thine fall back, always win up the mountain behind me, till

some sage guide appear for us.”

The summit was so high it surpassed the sight and the side steeper far

than a line from the mid quadrant to the centre.[1] I was weary, when I

began, “O sweet Father, turn and regard howl remain alone if thou dost

not stop.” “My son,” said he, “far as here drag thyself,” pointing me

to a ledge a little above, which on that side circles all the hill. His

words so spurred me, that I forced myself, scrambling after him, until

the belt was beneath my feet. There we both sat down, turning to the

east, whence we had ascended, for to look back is wont to encourage

one. I first turned my eyes to the low shores, then I raised them to

the sun, and wondered that on the left we were struck by it. The Poet

perceived clearly that I was standing all bewildered at the chariot of

the light, where between us and Aquilo,[2] it was entering. Whereupon

he to me, “If Castor and Pollux were in company with that mirror[3]

which up and down guides with its light, thou wouldst see the ruddy

Zodiac revolving still closer to the Bears, if it went not out of its

old road.[4] How that may be, if thou wishest to be able to think,

collected in thyself imagine Zion and this mountain to stand upon the

earth so that both have one sole horizon, and different hemispheres;

then thou wilt see that the road which Phaethon, to his harm, knew not

how to drive, must needs pass on the one side of this mountain, and on

the other side of that, if thy intelligence right clearly heeds.”

“Surely, my Master,” said I, “never yet saw I so clearly, as I now

discern there where my wit seemed deficient; for the mid-circle of the

supernal motion, which is called Equator in a certain art,[4] and which

always remains between the sun and the winter, for the reason that thou

tellest, from here departs toward the north, while the Hebrews saw it

toward the warm region. But, if it please thee, willingly I would know

how far we have to go, for the hill rises higher than my eyes can

rise.” And he to me, “This mountain is such, that ever at the beginning

below it is hard, and the higher one goes the less it hurts; therefore

when it shall seem so pleasant to thee that the going up will be easy

to thee as going down the current in a vessel, then wilt thou be at the

end of this path; there repose from toil await: no more I answer, and

this I know for true.”

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

[2] The North.

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

[4] If the sun were in the sign of the Gemini instead of being in Aries

it would make the Zodiac ruddy still farther to the north. In Purgatory

the sun being seen from south of the equator is on the left hand, while

at Jerusalem, in the northern hemisphere, it is seen on the right.

[5] Astronomy.

And when he had said his word, a voice near by sounded, “Perchance thou

wilt be first constrained to sit.” At the sound of it each of us

turned, and we saw at the left a great stone which neither he nor I

before had noticed. Thither we drew; and there were persons who were

staying in the shadow behind the rock, as one through indolence sets

himself to stay. And one of them, who seemed to me weary, was seated,

and was clasping his knees, holding his face down low between them. “O

sweet my Lord,” said I, “look at him who shows himself more indolent

than if sloth were his sister.” Then that one turned to us and gave

heed, moving his look only up along his thigh, and said, “Now go up

thou, for thou art valiant.” I recognized then who he was, and that

effort which was still quickening my breath a little hindered not my

going to him, and after I had reached him, he scarce raised his head,

saying, “Hast thou clearly seen how the sun over thy left shoulder

drives his chariot?”

His slothful acts and his short words moved my lips a little to a

smile, then I began, “Belacqua,[1] I do not grieve for thee now,[2] but

tell me why just here thou art seated? awaitest thou a guide, or has

only thy wonted mood recaptured thee?” And he, “Brother, what imports

the going up? For the bird of God that sitteth at the gate would not

let me go to the torments. It first behoves that heaven circle around

me outside the gate, as long as it did in life, because I delayed good

sighs until the end; unless the prayer first aid me which rises up from

a heart that lives in grace: what avails the other which is not heard

in heaven?”

[1] Belacqua, according to Benvenuto da Imola, was a Florentine, a

maker of citherns and other musical instruments; he carved with great

care the necks and heads of his citherns, and sometimes he played on

them. Dante, because of his love of music, had been well acquainted

with him.

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

And now the Poet in front of me was ascending, and he said, “Come on

now: thou seest that the meridian is touched by the sun, and on the

shore the night now covers with her foot Morocco.”

CANTO V.

Ante-Purgatory.—Spirits who had delayed repentance, and met with death

by violence, but died repentant.—Jacopo del Cassero.—Buonconte da

Montefeltro—Via de’ Tolomei.

I had now parted from those shades, and was following the footsteps of

my Leader, when behind me, pointing his finger, one cried out, “Look,

the ray seems not to shine on the left hand of that lower one, and as

if alive he seems to hear himself.” I turned my eyes at the sound of

these words, and I saw them watching, for marvel, only me, only me, and

the light which was broken.

“Why is thy mind so hampered,” said the Master, “that thou slackenest

thy going? What matters to thee that which here is whispered? Come

after me, and let the people talk. Stand as a tower firm, that never

wags its top for blowing of the winds; for always the man in whom

thought on thought wells up removes from himself his aim, for the force

of one weakens the other.” What could I answer, save “I come”? I said

it, overspread somewhat with the color, which, at times, makes a man

worthy of pardon.

And meanwhile across upon the mountain side, a little in front of us,

were coming people, singing “Miserere,” verse by verse. When they

observed that I gave not place for passage of the rays through my body,

they changed their song into a long and hoarse “Oh!” and two of them,

in form of messengers, ran to meet us, and asked of us, “Of your

condition make us cognizant.” And my Master, “Ye can go back, and

report to them who sent you, that the body of this one is true flesh.

If, as I suppose, they stopped because of seeing his shadow, enough is

answered them; let them do him honor and he may he dear to them.”

Never did I see enkindled vapors at early night so swiftly cleave the

clear sky, nor at set of sun the clouds of August, that these did not

return up in less time; and, arrived there, they, with the others, gave

a turn toward us, like a troop that runs without curb. “These folk that

press to us are many, and they come to pray thee,” said the Poet;

“wherefore still go on, and in going listen.” “O soul,” they came

crying, “that goest to be happy with those limbs with which thou wast

born, a little stay thy step; look if thou hast ever seen any one of

us, so that thou mayest carry news of him to earth. Ah, why dost thou

go on? Ah, why dost thou not stop? We were of old all done to death by

violence, and sinners up to the last hour; then light from Heaven made

us mindful, so that both penitent and pardoning we issued forth from

life, at peace with God, who fills our hearts with the desire to see

him.” And I, “Although I gaze upon your faces, not one I recognize; but

if aught that I can do be pleasing to you, spirits wellborn,[1] speak

ye, and I will do it by that peace which makes me, following the feet

of such a guide, seek for itself from world to world.” And one began,

“Each of us trusts in thy good turn without thy swearing it, provided

want of power cut not off the will; wherefore I, who alone before the

others speak, pray thee, if ever thou see that land that sits between

Romagna and the land of Charles,[2] that thou be courteous to me with

thy prayers in Fano, so that for me good orisons be made, whereby I may

purge away my grave offences. Thence was I; but the deep wounds,

wherefrom issued the blood in which I had my seat,[3] were given me in

the bosom of the Endoneuria,[4] there where I thought to be most

secure; he of Este had it done, who held me in wrath far beyond what

justice willed. But if I had fled toward Mira,[5] when I was overtaken

at Oriaco, I should still be yonder where men breathe. I ran to the

marsh, and the reeds and the mire hampered me so that I fell, and there

I saw a lake made by my veins upon the ground.”

[1] Elect from birth to the joys of Paradise, in contrast with the

ill-born, the miscreants of Hell.

[2] The March of Ancona, between the Romagna and the kingdom of Naples,

then held by Charles II. of Anjou. It is Jacopo del Cassero who speaks.

He was a noted and valiant member of the leading Guelph family in Fano.

On his way to take the place of Podesta of Milan, in 1298, he was

assassinated by the minions of Azzo VIII. of Este, whom he had

offended.

[3] The life of all flesh is the blood thereof.” Levit., xvii. 14. Or,

according to the Vulgate, “Anima carnis in sanguine est.”

[4] That is to say, in the territory of the Paduans, whose city was

reputed to have been founded by Antenor.

[5] Mira is a little settlement on the bank of one of the canals of the

Brenta. Why flight thither would have been safe is mere matter of

conjecture.

Then said another, “Ah! so may that desire be fulfilled which draws

thee to the high mountain, with good piety help thou mine. I was of

Montefeltro, and am Buonconte.[1] Joan or any other has no care for me,

wherefore I go among these with downcast front.” And I to him, “What

violence, or what chance so carried thee astray from Campaldino,[2]

that thy burial place was never known?” “Oh!” replied he, “at foot of

the Casentino crosses a stream, named the Archiano, which rises in the

Apennine above the Hermitage.[3] Where its proper name becomes vain[4]

I arrived, pierced in the throat, flying on foot, and bloodying the

plain. Here I lost my sight, and I ended my speech with the name of

Mary, and here I fell, and my flesh remained alone. I will tell the

truth, and do thou repeat it among the living. The Angel of God took

me, and he of Hell cried out, “O thou from Heaven, why dost thou rob

me?[5] Thou bearest away for thyself the eternal part of him for one

little tear which takes him from me; but of the rest I will make other

disposal.” Thou knowest well how in the air is condensed that moist

vapor which turns to water soon as it rises where the cold seizes it.

He joined that evil will, which seeketh only evil, with intelligence,

and moved the mist and the wind by the power that his own nature gave.

Then when the day was spent he covered the valley with cloud, from

Pratomagno to the great chain, and made the frost above so intense that

the pregnant air was turned to water. The rain fell, and to the gullies

came of it what the earth did not endure, and as it gathered in great

streams it rushed so swiftly towards the royal river that nothing held

it back. The robust Archiano found my frozen body near its outlet, and

pushed it into the Arno, and loosed on my breast the cross which I made

of myself when the pain overcame me. It rolled me along its banks, and

along its bottom, then with its spoil it covered and girt me.”

[1] Son of Count Guido da Montefeltro, the treacherous counsellor who

had told his story to Dante in Hell, Canto XXVII. Joan was his wife.

[2] The battle of Campaldino, in which Dante himself, perhaps, took

part, was fought on the 11th of June, 1289, between the Florentine

Guelphs and the Ghibellines of Arezzo. Buonconte was the captain of the

Aretines. Campaldino is a little plain in the upper valley of the Arno.

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

in 1012.

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

[5] St. Francis and one of the black Cherubim had had a similar

contention, as will be remembered, over the soul of Buonconte’s father.

“Ah! when thou shalt have returned unto the world, and rested from the

long journey,” the third spirit followed on the second, “be mindful of

me, who am Pia.[1] Siena made me, Maremma unmade me; he knows it who

with his gem ringed me, betrothed before.”

[1] This sad Pia is supposed to have belonged to the Sienese family of

the Tolomei, and to have been the wife of Nello or Paganello de’

Pannocchieschi, who was reported to have had her put to death in his

stronghold of Pietra in the Tuscan Maremma. Her fate seems the more

pitiable that she does not pray Dante to seek for her the prayers of

any living person. The last words of Pia are obscure, and are

interpreted variously. Possibly the “betrothed before” hints at a

source of jealousy as the motive of her murder.

CANTO VI.

Ante-Purgatory.—More spirits who had deferred repentance till they were

overtaken by a violent death.—Efficacy of prayer.—Sordello.—Apostrophe

to Italy.

When a game of dice is broken up, he who loses remains sorrowful,

repeating the throws, and, saddened, learns; with the other all the

folk go along; one goes before and one plucks him from behind, and at

his side one brings himself to mind. He does not stop; listens to one

and the other the man to whom he reaches forth his hand presses on him

no longer, and thus from the throng he defends himself. Such was I in

that dense crowd, turning my face to them this way and that; and,

promising, I loosed myself from them.

Here was the Aretine,[1] who from the fierce arms of Ghin di Tacco had

his death; and the other who was drowned when running in pursuit. Here

Federigo Novello[2] was praying with hands outstretched, and he of

Pisa, who made the good Marzucco seem strong.[3] I saw Count Orso; and

the soul divided from its body by spite and by envy, as it said, and

not for fault committed, Pierre do la Brosse,[5] I mean; and here let

the Lady of Brabant take forethought, while she is on earth, so that

for this she be not of the worse flock.

[1] The Aretine was Messer Benincasa da Laterina, a learned judge, who

had condemned to death for their crimes two relatives of Ghin di Tacco,

the most famous freebooter of the day, whose headquarters were between

Siena and Rome. Some time after, Messer Benincasa sitting as judge in

Rome, Ghino entered the city with a band of his followers, made his way

to the tribunal, slew Benincasa, and escaped unharmed.

[2] Another Aretine, of the Tarlati family, concerning whose death the

early commentators are at variance. Benvenuto da Imola says that, hotly

pursuing his enemies, his horse carried him into a marsh, from which he

could not extricate himself, so that his foes turned upon him and slew

him with their arrows.

[3] Federigo, son of the Count Guido Novello, of the circumstances of

whose death, said to have taken place in 1291, nothing certain is

known. Benvenuto says, he was multum probus, a good youth, and

therefore Dante mentions him.

[4] Of him of Pisa different stories are told. Benvenuto says, “I have

heard from the good Boccaccio, whom I trust more than the others, that

Marzucco was a good man of the city of Pisa, whose son was beheaded by

order of Count Ugolino, the tyrant, who commanded that his body should

remain unburied. In the evening his father went to the Count, as a

stranger unconcerned in the matter, and, without tears or other sign of

grief, said, ‘Surely, my lord, it would be to your honor that that poor

body should be buried, and not left cruelly as food for dogs.’ Then the

Count, recognizing him, said astonished, ‘Go, your patience overcomes

my obduracy,’ and immediately Marzucco went and buried his son.”

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

[6] Pierre de is Brosse was chamberlain and confidant of Philip the

Bold of France. He lost the king’s favor, and charges of wrong-doing

being brought against him he was hung. It was reported that his death

was brought about through jealousy by Mary of Brabant, the second wife

of Philip. She lived till 1321, so that Dante’s warning may have

reached her ears.

When I was free from each and all those shades who prayed only that

some one else should pray, so that their becoming holy may be speeded,

I began, “It seems that thou deniest to me, O Light of mine, expressly,

in a certain text, that orison can bend decree of Heaven, and this folk

pray only for this,—shall then their hope be vain? or is thy saying not

rightly clear to me?[1]

[1] Virgil represents Palinurus as begging to be allowed to cross the

Styx, while his body was still unburied and without due funeral rites.

To this petition the Sibyl answers:—Desine fata Deum flecti sperare

precando:—Cease to hope that the decrees of the gods can be changed by

prayer.”—Aeneid, vi. 376.

And he to me, “My writing is plain, and the hope of these is not

fallacious, if well it is regarded with sound mind; for top of judgment

vails not itself because a fire of love may, in one instant, fulfil

that which he who is stationed here must satisfy. And there where I

affirmed this proposition, defect was not amended by a prayer, because

the prayer was disjoined from God. But truly in regard to so deep a

doubt decide thou not, unless she tell thee who shall be a light

between the truth and the understanding.[1] I know not if thou

understandest; I speak of Beatrice. Thou shalt see her above, smiling

and happy, upon the summit of this mountain.”

[1] The question, being one that relates to the Divine will, cannot be

answered with full assurance by human reason.

And I, “My lord, let us go on with greater speed, for now I mu not

weary as before; and behold now how the bill casts its shadow.” “We

will go forward with this day,” he answered, “as much further as we

shall yet be able; but the fact is of other form than thou supposest.

Before thou art there-above thou wilt see him return, who is now hidden

by the hill-side so that thou dost not make his rays to break. But see

there a soul which seated all alone is looking toward us; it will point

out to us the speediest way.” We came to it. O Lombard soul, how lofty

and scornful wast thou; and in the movement of thine eyes grave and

slow! It said not anything to us, but let us go on, looking only in

manner of a lion when he couches. Virgil, however, drew near to it,

praying that it would show to us the best ascent; and it answered not

to his request, but of our country and life it asked us. And the sweet

Leader began, “Mantua,”—and the shade, all in itself recluse, rose

toward him from the place where erst it was, saying, “O Mantuan, I am

Sordello of thy city,”[1]—and they embraced each other.

[1] Sordello, who lived early in the thirteenth century, was of the

family of the Visconti of Mantua. He left his native land and gave up

his native tongue to live and write as a troubadour in Provence, but

his fame belonged to Italy.

Ah, servile Italy, hostel of grief! ship without pilot in great

tempest! not lady of provinces, but a brothel! that gentle soul was so

ready, only at the sweet sound of his native land, to give glad welcome

here unto his fellow-citizen: and now in thee thy living men exist not

without war, and of those whom one wall and one moat shut in one doth

gnaw the other. Search, wretched one, around the shores, thy seaboard,

and then look within thy bosom, if any part in thee enjoyeth peace!

What avails it that for thee Justinian should mend the bridle, if the

saddle be empty? Without this, the shame would be less. Ah folk,[1]

that oughtest to be devout and let Caesar sit in the saddle, if thou

rightly understandest what God notes for thee! Look how fell this wild

beast has become, through not being corrected by the spurs, since thou

didst put thy hand upon the bridle. O German Albert, who abandonest her

who has become untamed and savage, and oughtest to bestride her

saddle-bows, may a just judgment from the stars fall upon thy blood,

and may it be strange and manifest, so that thy successor may have fear

of it![2] For thou and thy father, retained up there by greed, have

suffered the garden of the empire to become desert. Come thou to see

Montecchi and Cappelletti, Monaldi and Filippeschi,[3] thou man without

care: those already wretched, and these in dread. Come, cruel one,

come, and see the distress of thy nobility, and cure their hurts; and

thou shalt see Santafiora[4] how safe it is. Come to see thy Rome, that

weeps, widowed and alone, and day and night cries, “My Caesar,

wherefore dost thou not keep me company?” Come to see the people, how

loving it is; and, if no pity for us move thee, come to be shamed by

thine own renown! And if it be lawful for me, O Supreme Jove that wast

on earth crucified for us, are thy just eyes turned aside elsewhere? Or

is it preparation, that in the abyss of thy counsel thou art making for

some good utterly cut off from our perception? For the cities of Italy

are all full of tyrants, and every churl that comes playing the

partisan becomes a Marcellus?[5]

[1] The Church-folk, the clergy, for whom God has ordained,—“Render

unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s.”

[2] Albert of Hapsburg, son of the Emperor Rudolph, was elected King of

the Romans in 1298, but like his father never went to Italy to he

crowned. He was murdered by his nephew, John, called the parricide, in

1308, at Konigsfelden. The successor of Albert was Henry VII. of

Luxemborg, who came to Italy in 1311, was crowned at Rome in 1312, and

died at Buonconvento the next year. His death ended the hopes of Dante.

[3] Famous families, the first two of Verona, the last two of Orvieto,

at enmity with each other in their respective cities,—types of a common

condition.

[4] The Counts of Santafiora were once the most powerful Ghibelline

nobles in the Sienese territory. Their power had declined since the

Hohenstaufen Emperors had been succeeded by the Hapsburgs, and they

were now subjected to the Guelphs of Siena.

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

Marcellus was of Caesar.

My Florence! surely thou mayst be content with this digression, which

toucheth thee not, thanks to thy people that for itself takes heed.

Many have justice at heart but shoot slowly, in order not to come

without counsel to the bow; but thy people has it on the edge of its

lips. Many reject the common burden, but thy people, eager, replies

without being called on, and cries, “I load myself.” Now be thou glad,

for thou hast truly wherefore: thou rich, thou in peace, thou wise. If

I speak the truth, the result hides it not. Athens and Lacedaemon, that

made the ancient laws and were so civilized, made toward living well a

little sign, compared with thee that makest such finespun provisions,

that to mid November reaches not, what thou in October spinnest. How

often in the time that thou rememberest, law, money, office, and

custom, hast thou changed, and renewed thy members! And if thou mind

thee well and see the light, thou wilt see thyself resembling a sick

woman, who cannot find repose upon the feathers, but with her tossing

seeks to relieve her pain.

CANTO VII.

Virgil makes himself known to Sordello.—Sordello leads the Poets to the

Valley of the Princes who have been negligent of salvation.—He points

them out by name.

After the becoming and glad salutations had been repeated three and

four times, Sordello drew back and said, “Ye, who are ye?” “Before the

souls worthy to ascend to God were turned unto this mountain, my bones

had been buried by Octavian; I am Virgil, and for no other sin did I

lose heaven, but for not having faith,” thus then replied my Leader.

As is he who suddenly sees a thing before him whereat he marvels, and

doth and doth not believe, saying, “It is, it is not,”—so seemed that

shade, and then he bent down his brow, and humbly turned again toward

him and embraced him where the inferior takes hold.

“O glory of the Latins,” said he, “through whom our language showed

what it could do, O honor eternal of the place wherefrom I was, what

merit or what grace shows thee to me? If I am worthy to hear thy words,

tell me if thou comest from Hell, and from what cloister.” “Through all

the circles of the realm of woe,” replied he to him, “am I come hither;

Power of Heaven moved me, and with it I come. Not by doing, but by not

doing have I lost the sight of the high Sun whom thou desirest, and who

by me was known late. A place there is below not sad with torments but

with darkness only, where the lamentations sound not as wailings, but

are sighs; there stay I with the little innocents bitten by the teeth

of death before they were exempt from human sin; there stay I with

those who were not vested with the three holy virtues, and without vice

knew the others and followed all of them.[1] But if thou knowest and

canst, give us some direction whereby we may come more speedily there

where Purgatory has its true beginning.” He replied, “A certain place

is not set for us; it is permitted me to go upward and around; so far

as I can go I join myself to thee as guide. But see how already the day

declines, and to go up by night is not possible; therefore it is well

to think of some fair sojourn. There are souls here on the right apart;

if thou consentest to me I will lead thee to them, and not without

delight will they be known to thee.” “How is this?” was answered, “he

who might wish to ascend by night, would he be hindered by another, or

would he not be able to ascend?” And the good Sordello drew his finger

on the ground, saying, “See, only this line thou couldst not pass after

set of sun; not because aught else save the nocturnal darkness would

give hindrance to going up; that hampers the will with impotence.[2]

One could, indeed, in it[3] turn downward and walk the hillside

wandering around, while the horizon holds the day shut up.” Then my

Lord, as if wondering, said, “Lead us, then, there where thou sayest

one may have delight while waiting.”

[1] The virtuous Heathen did not possess the so-called theological

virtues of Faith, Hope, and Charity; but they practiced the four

cardinal virtues of Prudence, Temperance, Fortitude and Justice.

[2] The allegory is plain: the soul can mount the steep of purification

only when illuminated by the Sun of Divine Grace.

[3] In the darkness.

Little way had we gone from that place, when I perceived that the

mountain was hollowed out in like fashion as the valleys hollow them

here on earth. “Yonder,” said that shade, “will we go, where the

hillside makes a lap of itself, and there will we await the new day.”

Between steep and level was a winding path that led us into a side of

the dale, where more than by half the edge dies away. Gold and fine

silver, and scarlet and white, Indian wood lucid and clear,[1] fresh

emerald at the instant it is split, would each be vanquished in color

by the herbage and by the flowers set within that valley, as by its

greater the less is vanquished. Nature had not only painted there, but

with sweetness of a thousand odors she made there one unknown and

blended.

[1] The blue of indigo.

Upon the green and upon the flowers I saw souls who, because of the

valley, were not visible from without, seated here singing “Salve

regina.”[1] “Before the lessening sun sinks to his nest,” began the

Mantuan who had turned us thither, “desire not that among these I guide

you. From this bank ye will better become acquainted with the acts and

countenances of all of them, than received among them on the level

below. He who sits highest and has the semblance of having neglected

what he should have done, and who moves not his mouth to the others’

songs, was Rudolph the Emperor, who might have healed the wounds that

have slain Italy, so that slowly by another she is revived.[2] The

next, who in appearance comforts him, ruled the land where the water

rises that Moldau bears to Elbe, and Elbe to the sea. Ottocar was his

name,[3] and in his swaddling clothes he was better far than bearded

Wenceslaus, his son, whom luxury and idleness feed.[4] And that

small-nosed one, who seems close in counsel with him who has so benign

an aspect, died in flight and disflowering the lily;[5] look there how

he beats his breast. See the next who, sighing, has made a bed for his

cheek with his hand.[6] Father and father-in-law are they of the harm

of France; they know his vicious and foul life, and thence comes the

grief that so pierces them. He who looks so large-limbed,[7] and who

accords in singing with him of the masculine nose,[8] wore girt the

cord of every worth, and if the youth that is sitting behind him had

followed him as king, truly had worth gone from vase to vase, which

cannot be said of the other heirs: James and Frederick hold the realms;

[9] the better heritage no one possesses. Rarely doth human goodness

rise through the branches, and this He wills who gives it, in order

that it may be asked from Him. To the large-nosed one also my words

apply not less than to the other, Peter, who is singing with him;

wherefore Apulia and Provence are grieving now.[10] The plant is as

inferior to its seed, as, more than Beatrice and Margaret, Constance

still boasts of her husband.[11] See the King of the simple life

sitting there alone, Henry of England; he in his branches hath a better

issue.[12] That one who lowest among them sits on the ground, looking

upward, is William the marquis,[13] for whom Alessandria and her war

make Montferrat and the Canavese mourn.”

[1] The beginning of a Church hymn to the Virgin, sung after

vespers, of which the first verses are:—

Salve, Regina, mater misericordiae!

Vita, dulcedo et spes nostra, salve!

Ad te clamamus exsules filii Hevae;

Ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes

In hac lacrymarum valle.

[2] The neglect of Italy by the Emperor Rudolph (see the preceding

Canto) was not to be repaired by the vain efforts of Henry VII.

[3] Ottocar, King of Bohemia and Duke of Austria, had been slain in

battle against Rudolph, on the Marchfeld by the Donau, in 1278;

“whereby Austria fell to Rudolph.” See Carlyle’s Frederick the Great,

book ii. ch. 7.

[4] Dante repeats his harsh judgment of Wenceslaus in the nineteenth

Canto of Paradise. His first wife was the daughter of Rudolph of

Hapsburg. He died in 1305.

[5] This is Philip the Bold of France, 1270-1285. Having invaded

Catalonia, in a war with Peter the Third of Aragon, he was driven back,

and died on the retreat at Perpignan.

[6] Henry of Navarre, the brother of Thibault, the poet-king (Hell,

Canto XXII.). His daughter Joan married Philip the Fair, “the harm of

France,” the son of Philip the Bold.

[7] Peter of Aragon (died 1285), the husband of Constance, daughter of

Manfred (see Canto III.); the youth who is seated behind him is his son

Alphonso, who died in 1291.

[8] Charles of Anjou.

[9] The kingdoms of Aragon and Sicily; both James and Frederick were

living when Dante thus wrote of them. The “better heritage” was the

virtue of their father.

[10] Apulia and Provence were grieving under the rule of Charles II.,

the degenerate son of Charles of Anjou, who died in 1309.

[11] The meaning is doubtful; perhaps it is, that the children of

Charles of Anjou and of Peter of Aragon are as inferior to their

fathers, as Charles himself, the husband first of Beatrice of Provence

and then of Margaret of Nevers, was inferior to Peter, the husband of

Constance.

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

[13] William Spadalunga was Marquis of Montferrat and Canavese, the

Piedmontese highlands and plain north of the Po. He was Imperial vicar,

and the bead of the Ghibellines in this region. In a war with the

Guelphs, who had risen in revolt in 1290, he was taken captive at

Alessandria, and for two years, till his death, was kept in an iron

cage. Dante refers to him in the Convito, iv. 11, as “the good marquis

of Montferrat.”

CANTO VIII.

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

Serpent.—Corrado Malaspina.

It was now the hour that turns back desire in those that sail the sea,

and softens their hearts, the day when they have said to their sweet

friends farewell, and which pierces the new pilgrim with love, if he

hears from afar a bell that seems to deplore the dying day,—when I

began to render hearing vain, and to look at one of the souls who,

uprisen, besought attention with its hand. It joined and raised both

its palms, fixing its eyes toward the orient, as if it said to God,

“For aught else I care not.” “Te lucis ante”[1] so devoutly issued from

his mouth and with such sweet notes that it made me issue forth from my

own mind. And then the others sweetly and devoutly accompanied it

through all the hymn to the end, having their eyes upon the supernal

wheels. Here, reader, sharpen well thine eyes for the truth, for the

veil is now indeed so thin that surely passing through within is

easy.[2]

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

the day:

Te locis ante terminum,

Rerom Creator poscimus,

Ut tus pro clementia

Sis presul et custodia:—

“Before the close of light, we pray thee, O Creator, that through thy

clemency, thou be our watch and guard.”

[2] The allegory seems to be, that the soul which has entered upon the

way of repentance and purification, but which is not yet securely

advanced therein, is still exposed to temptation, especially when the

light of the supernal grace does not shine directly upon it. But if the

soul have steadfast purpose to resist temptation, and seek aid from

God, that aid will not be wanting. The prayer of the Church which is

recited after the hymn just cited has these words: “Visit, we pray

thee, O Lord, this abode, and drive far from it the snares of the

enemy. Let thy holy Angels bide in it, and guard us in peace.” Pallid

with self distrust, humble with the sense of need, the soul awaits the

fulfilment of its prayer. The angels are clad in green, the symbolic

color of hope. Their swords are truncated, because needed only for

defence.

I saw that army of the gentle-born silently thereafter gazing upward as

if in expectation, pallid and humble; and I saw issuing from on high

and descending two angels, with two fiery swords truncated and deprived

of their points. Green as leaflets just now born were their garments,

which, beaten and blown by their green pinions, they trailed behind.

One came to stand a little above us, and the other descended on the

opposite bank, so that the people were contained between them. I

clearly discerned in them their blond heads, but on their faces the eye

was dazzled, as a faculty which is confounded by excess. “Both come

from the bosom of Mary,” said Sordello, “for guard of the valley,

because of the serpent that will come straightway.” Whereat I, who knew

not by what path, turned me round, and all chilled drew me close to the

trusty shoulders.

And Sordello again, “Now let us go down into the valley among the great

shades, and we will speak to them; well pleasing will it be to them to

see you.” Only three steps I think I had descended and I was below; and

I saw one who was gazing only at me as if he wished to know me. It was

now the time when the air was darkening, but not so that between his

eyes and mine it did not reveal that which it locked up before.[1]

Towards me he moved, and I moved towards him. Gentle Judge Nino,[2] how

much it pleased me when I saw that thou wast not among the damned! No

fair salutation was silent between us; then he asked, “How long is it

since thou camest to the foot of the mountain across the far waters?”

[1] It was not yet so dark that recognition of one near at hand was

difficult, though at a distance it had been impossible.

[2] Nino (Ugolino) de’ Visconti of Pisa was the grandson of Count

Ugolino, and as the leader of the Pisan Guelphs became his bitter

opponent. Sardinia was under the dominion of Pisa, and was divided into

four districts, each of which was governed by one of the Pisan nobles,

under the title of Judge. Nino had held the judicature of Gallura,

where Frate Gomita (see Hell, Canto XXII.) had been his vicar. Nino

died in 1296.

“Oh,” said I to him, “from within the dismal places I came this

morning, and I am in the first life, albeit in going thus, I may gain

the other.” And when my answer was heard, Sordello[1] and he drew

themselves back like folk suddenly bewildered, the one to Virgil, and

the other turned to one who was seated there, crying, “Up, Corrado,[2]

come to see what God through grace hath willed.” Then, turning to me,

“By that singular gratitude thou owest unto Him who so hides His own

first wherefore[3] that there is no ford to it, when thou shalt be

beyond the wide waves, say to my Joan, that for me she cry there where

answer is given to the innocent. I do not think her mother[4] loves me

longer, since she changed her white wimples,[5] which she, wretched,

needs must desire again. Through her easily enough is comprehended how

long the fire of love lasts in woman, if eye or touch does not often

rekindle it. The viper[6] which leads afield the Milanese will not make

for her so fair a sepulture as the cock of Gallura would have done.”

Thus he said, marked in his aspect with the stamp of that upright zeal

which in due measure glows in the heart.

[1] The sun was already hidden behind the mountain when Virgil and

Dante came upon Sordello. Sordello had not therefore seen that Dante

cast a shadow, and being absorbed in discourse with Virgil had not

observed that Dante breathed as a living man.

[2] Corrado, of the great Guelph family of the Malaspina, lords of the

Lunigiana, a wide district between Genoa and Pisa.

[3] The reason of that which He wills.

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

Visconti of Milan.

[5] The white veil or wimple and black garments were worn by widows.

The prophecy that she must needs wish for her white wimple again seems

merely to rest on Nino’s disapproval of her second marriage.

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

My greedy eyes were going ever to the sky, ever there where the stars

are slowest, even as a wheel nearest the axle. And my Leader, “Son, at

what lookest thou up there?” And I to him, “At those three torches with

which the pole on this side is all aflame.”[1] And he to me, “The four

bright stars which thou sawest this morning are low on the other side,

and these are risen where those were.”

[1] These three stars are supposed to symbolize the theological

virtues,—faith. hope, and charity, whose light shines when the four

virtues of active life grow dim in night.

As he was speaking, lo! Sordello drew him to himself, saying, “See

there our adversary,” and pointed his finger that he should look

thither. At that part where the little valley has no barrier was a

snake, perhaps such as gave to Eve the bitter food. Through the grass

and the flowers came the evil trail, turning from time to time its head

to its back, licking like a beast that sleeks itself. I did not see,

and therefore cannot tell how the celestial falcons moved, but I saw

well both one and the other in motion. Hearing the air cleft by their

green wings the serpent fled, and the angels wheeled about, up to their

stations flying back alike.

The shade which had drawn close to the Judge when he exclaimed, through

all that assault had not for a moment loosed its gaze from me. “So may

the light that leadeth thee on high find in thine own free-will so much

wax as is needed up to the enamelled summit,”[1] it began, “if thou

knowest true news of Valdimacra[2] or of the neighboring region, tell

it to me, for formerly I was great there. I was called Corrado

Malaspina; I am not the ancient,[3] but from him I am descended; to

mine own I bore the love which here is refined.” “Oh,” said I to him,

“through your lands I have never been, but where doth man dwell in all

Europe that they are not renowned? The fame that honoreth your house

proclaims its lords, proclaims its district, so that he knows of them

who never yet was there; and I swear to you, so may I go above, that

your honored race doth not despoil itself of the praise of the purse

and of the sword. Custom and nature so privilege it that though the

guilty head turn the world awry, alone it goes right and scorns the

evil road.”[4] And he, “Now go, for the sun shall not lie seven times

in the bed that the Ram covers and bestrides with all four feet,[5]

before this courteous opinion will be nailed in the middle of thy head

with greater nails than the speech of another, if course of judgment be

not arrested.”

[1] So may illuminating grace find the disposition in thee requisite

for the support of its light, until thou shalt arrive at the summit of

the Mountain, the earthly Paradise enamelled with perpetual flowers.

[2] A part of the Lunigiana.

[3] The old Corrado Malaspina was the husband of Constance, the sister

of King Manfred. He died about the middle of the thirteenth century.

The second Corrado was his grandson.

[4] This magnificent eulogy of the land and the family of Malaspina is

Dante’s return for the hospitality which, in 1306, he received from the

Marquis Moroello and other members of the house.

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

of the Ram.

CANTO IX.

Slumber and Dream of Dante.—The Eagle.—Lucia.—The Gate of

Purgatory.—The Angelic Gatekeeper.—Seven P’s inscribed on Dante’s

Forehead.—Entrance to the First Ledge.

The concubine of old Tithonus was now gleaming white on the balcony of

the orient, forth from the arms of her sweet friend; her forehead was

lucent with gems set in the shape of the cold animal that strikes

people with its tail.[1] And in the place where we were the night had

taken two of the steps with which she ascends, and the third was

already bending down its wings, when I, who had somewhat of Adam with

me, overcome by sleep, reclined upon the grass, there where all five of

us were seated.

[1] By the concubine of old Tithonus, Dante seems to have intended the

lunar Aurora, in distinction from the proper wife of Tithonus, Aurora,

who precedes the rising Sun, and the meaning of these verses is that “

the Aurora before moonrise was lighting up the eastern sky, the

brilliant stars of the sign Scorpio were on the horizon, and, finally,

it was shortly after 8.30 P.M.” (Moore.) “The steps with which the

night ascends” are the six hours of the first half of the night, from 6

P.M. to midnight.

At the hour near the morning when the little swallow begins her sad

lays,[1] perchance in memory of her former woes, and when our mind,

more a wanderer from the flesh and less captive to the thought, is in

its visions almost divine,[2] in dream it seemed to me that I saw

poised in the sky an eagle with feathers of gold, with wings

widespread, and intent to stoop. And it seemed to me that I was

there[3] where his own people were abandoned by Ganymede, when he was

rapt to the supreme consistory. In myself I thought, “Perhaps this bird

strikes only here through wont, and perhaps from other place disdains

to carry anyone upward in his feet.” Then it seemed to me that, having

wheeled a little, it descended terrible as a thunderbolt, and snatched

me upwards far as the fire.[4] There it seemed that it and I burned,

and the imagined fire so scorched that of necessity the sleep was

broken.

[1] The allusion is to the tragic story of Progne and Philomela, turned

the one into a swallow, the other into a nightingale. Dante found the

tale in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Book vi.

[2] Dante passes three nights in Purgatory, and each night his sleep is

terminated by a dream towards the hour of dawn, the time when,

according to the belief of classical antiquity, the visions of dreams

are symbolic and prophetic. (Moore.)

[3] Mt. Ida.

[4] The sphere of fire by which, according to the mediaeval

cosmography, the sphere of the air was surrounded.

Not otherwise Achilles shook himself,—turning around his awakened eyes,

and not knowing where he was, when his mother from Chiron to Scyros

stole him away, sleeping in her arms, thither whence afterwards the

Greeks withdrew him,[1]—than I started, as from my face sleep fled

away; and I became pale, even as a man frightened turns to ice. At my

side was my Comforter only, and the sun was now more than two hours

high,[2] and my face was turned toward the sea. “Have no fear,” said my

Lord; “be reassured, for we are at a good point; restrain not, but

increase all thy force. Thou art now arrived at Purgatory; see there

the cliff that closes it around; see the entrance, there where it

appears divided. A while ago in the dawn that precedes the day, when

thy soul was sleeping within thee, upon the flowers wherewith the place

down yonder is adorned, came a lady, and said, “I am Lucia; let me take

this one who is sleeping; thus will I assist him along his way.’

Sordello remained, and the other gentle forms: she took thee, and when

the day was bright, she came upward, and I along her footprints. Here

she laid thee down: and first her beautiful eyes showed me that open

entrance; then she and slumber went away together.” Like a man that in

perplexity is reassured, and that alters his fear to confidence after

the truth is disclosed to him, did I change; and when my Leader saw me

without solicitude, up along the cliff he moved on, and I behind,

toward the height.

[1] Statius, in the first book of the Achilleid, tells how Thetis, to

prevent Achilles from going to the siege of Troy, bore him sleeping

away from his instructor, the centaur Chiron, and carried him to the

court of King Lycomedes, on the Island of Scyros, where, though

concealed in women’s garments, Ulysses and Diomed discovered him.

Statius relates how wonderstruck Achilles was when on awaking he found

himself at Scyros: Quae loca? qui fluctus? ubi Pelion? onmia versa

Atque ignota videt, dubitatque agnoscere matrem—249-50.

[2] The morning of Easter Monday.

[3] Lucia seems to be here the symbol of assisting grace, the gratia

operans of the school-men. It was she who was called upon by the Virgin

(Hell, Canto II.) to aid Dante when he was astray in the wood, and who

had moved Beatrice to go to his succor.

Reader, thou seest well how I exalt my theme, and therefore marvel not

if with more art I reenforce it.[1]

[1] These words may be intended to call attention to the doctrine which

underlies the imagery of the verse.

The entrance within the gate of Purgatory is the assurance of

justification, which is the change of the soul from a state of sin to a

state of justice or righteousness. Justification itself consists,

according to St. Thomas Aquinas (Summa Theologica, Prima Secundae,

quaest. cxiii. art. 6 and 8), of four parts: first, the infusion of

grace; second, the turning of the free will to God through faith;

third, the turning of the free will against sin; fourth, the remission

of sin. It must be accompanied by the sacrament of penance, which

consists of contrition, confession, and satisfaction by works of

righteousness.

Outside the gate of Purgatory justification cannot be complete. The

souls in the Ante-Purgatory typify those who have entered on the way

towards justification, but have not yet attained it. They undergo a

period of mortification to sin, of deliberation, as St. Thomas Aquinas

says: “Contingit autem quandoque quod praecedit aliqua deliberatio quae

non est do substantia justificationis sed via in justificationem.”

Summa Theol., l. c. art. 7.

We drew near to it, and reached such place that there, where at first

there seemed to me a rift, like a cleft which divides a wall, I saw a

gate, and three steps beneath for going to it of divers colors, and a

gatekeeper who as yet said not a word. And as I opened my eye there

more and more, I saw him sitting on the upper step, such in his face

that I endured it not.[1] And he had in his hand a naked sword, which

so reflected the rays toward us that I often raised my sight in vain.

“Tell it from there, what would ye?” began he to say; “where is the

guide? Beware lest the coming up be harmful to you.”[2] “A lady from

Heaven with these things acquainted,” replied my Master to him, “only

just now said to us, ‘Go thither, here is the gate.’” “And may she

speed your progress in good,” began again the courteous gatekeeper,

“come forward then unto our steps.”

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

administers absolution.

[2] Unless grace has been infused into the heart it is a sin to present

one’s self as ready for the sacrament.

Thither we came to the first great stair; it was of white marble so

polished and smooth that I mirrored myself in it as I appear. The

second, of deeper hue than perse, was of a rough and scorched stone,

cracked lengthwise and athwart. The third, which above lies massy,

seemed to me of porphyry as flaming red as blood that spirts forth from

a vein. Upon this the Angel of God held both his feet, seated upon the

threshold that seemed to me stone of adamant.[1] Up over the three

steps my Leader drew me with good will, saying, “Beg humbly that he

undo the lock.” Devoutly I threw myself at the holy feet; I besought

for mercy’s sake that he would open for me; but first upon my breast I

struck three times.[2] Seven P’s upon my forehead he inscribed with the

point of his sword,[3] and “See that thou wash these wounds when thou

art within,” he said.

[1] The first step is the symbol of confession, the second of

contrition, the third of satisfaction; the threshold of adamant may

perhaps signify the authority of the Church.

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

deed.

[3] The seven P’s stand for the seven so-called mortal sins,—Peccati,

not specific acts, but the evil dispositions of the soul from which all

evil deeds spring,—pride, envy, anger, sloth (accidia), avarice,

gluttony, and lust. After justification these dispositions which

already have been overcome, must be utterly removed from the soul.

Ashes or earth dug out dry would be of one color with his vestment, and

from beneath that he drew two keys. One was of gold and the other was

of silver; first with the white and then with the yellow he so did to

the door, that I was content.[1] “Whenever one of these keys fails, and

turns not rightly in the lock,” said he to us, “this passage doth not

open. More precious is one[2] but the other requires much art and wit

before it unlocks, because it is the one that disentangles the knot.

From Peter I hold them; and he told me to err rather in opening than in

keeping shut, if but the people prostrate themselves at my feet.” Then

he pushed the valve of the sacred gate, saying, “Enter, but I give you

warning that whoso looks behind returns outside.”[3] And when the

pivots of that sacred portal, which are of metal, sonorous and strong,

were turned within their hinges, Tarpeia roared not so loud nor showed

herself so harsh, when the good Metellus was taken from her, whereby

she afterwards remained lean.[4]

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

the knowledge to whom to open.

[2] The gold, more precious because the power of absolution was

purchased by the death of the Saviour.

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

[4] This roaring of the gate may, perhaps, be intended to enforce the

last words of the angel, and may symbolize the voices of his own sins

as the sinner turns his back on them. When Caesar forced the doors of

the temple of Saturn on the Tarpeian rock, in order to lay hands on the

sacred treasure of Rome, he was resisted by the tribune Metellus.

I turned away attentive to the first tone,[1] and it seemed to me I

heard “Te Deum laudamus”[2] in voices mingled with sweet sound. That

which I heard gave me just such an impression as we are wont to receive

when people stand singing with an organ, and the words now are, now are

not caught.

[1] The first sound within Purgatory.

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

CANTO X.

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

When we were within the threshold of the gate, which the souls’ wrong

love[1] disuses, because it makes the crooked way seem straight, I

heard by its resounding that it was closed again. And, if I had turned

my eyes to it, what excuse would have been befitting for the fault?

[1] It is Dante’s doctrine that love is the motive of every act;

rightly directed, of good deeds; perverted, of evil. See Canto XVII.

We were ascending through a cloven rock, which moved on one side and on

the other, even as the wave retreats and approaches. “Here must be used

a little art,” began my Leader, “in keeping close, now here, now there

to the side which recedes.”[1] And this made our progress so slow that

the waning disk of the moon regained its bed to go to rest, before we

had come forth from that needle’s eye. But when we were free and open

above, where the mountain backward withdraws,[2] I weary, and both

uncertain of our way, we stopped upon a level more solitary than roads

through deserts. The space from its edge, where it borders the void, to

the foot of the high bank which rises only, a human body would measure

in three lengths; and as far as my eye could stretch its wings, now on

the left and now on the right side, such did this cornice seem to me.

Thereon our feet had not yet moved when I perceived that bank round

about, which, being perpendicular, allowed no ascent, to be of white

marble and adorned with such carvings, that not Polycletus merely but

Nature would be put to shame there.

[1] The path was a narrow, steep zigzag, which, as it receded on one

side and the other, afforded the better foothold.

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

The Angel who came to earth with the announcement of the peace, wept

for for many years, which opened Heaven from its long interdict,

appeared before us here carved in a sweet attitude so truly that he did

not seem an image that is silent. One would have sworn that he was

saying “Ave;” for there was she imaged who turned the key to open the

exalted love. And in her action she had these words impressed, “Ecce

ancilla Dei!”[1] as exactly as a shape is sealed in wax.

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

“Keep not thy mind only on one place,” said the sweet Master, who had

me on that side where people have their heart. Wherefore I moved my

eyes and saw behind Mary, upon that side where he was who was moving

me, another story displayed upon the rock; whereupon I passed Virgil

and drew near so that it might be set before my eyes. There in the very

marble was carved the cart and the oxen drawing the holy ark, because

of which men fear an office not given in charge.[1] In front appeared

people; and all of them, divided in seven choirs, of two of my senses

made the one say “NO,” the other “YES, THEY ARE SINGING.”[2] In like

manner, by the smoke of the incense that was imaged there, mine eyes

and nose were made in YES and NO discordant. There, preceding the

blessed vessel, dancing, girt up, was the humble Psalmist, and more and

less than king was he in that proceeding. Opposite, figured at a window

of a great palace, Michal was looking on even as a lady scornful and

troubled.[3]

[1] “And they set the ark of God on a new cart, and brought it out of

the house.. . and Uzzah and Ahio drave the new cart….and when they came

to Nachon’s threshing-floor, Uzzah put forth his hand to the ark of

God, and took hold of it; for the oxen shook it. And the anger of the

Lord was kindled against Uzzah, and God smote him there for his error;

and there he died by the ark of God.” 2 Samuel, vi. 4-7.

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

[3] “So David went and brought up the ark of God… into the city of

David with gladness. And when they that bare the ark of the Lord had

gone six paces he sacrificed oxen and fatlings. And David danced before

the Lord with all his might; and David was girded with a linen ephod.

So David and all the house of Israel brought up the ark of the Lord

with shouting, and with the sound of the trumpet. And as the ark of the

Lord came into the city of David, Michal, Saul’s daughter, looked

through a window, and saw King David leaping and dancing before the

Lord; and she despised him in her heart.” 2 Samuel, vi. 12-16.

I moved my feet from the place where I was standing to look from near

at another story which behind Michal was shining white on me. Here was

storied the high glory of the Roman prince, whose worth incited Gregory

to his great victory:[1] I speak of Trajan the emperor; and a poor

widow was at his bridle in attitude of weeping and of grief. Round

about him there seemed a press and throng of knights, and the eagles in

the gold above him to the sight were moving in the wind. The wretched

woman among all these seemed to be saying, “Lord, do vengeance for me

for my son who is slain, whereat I am broken-hearted.” And he to answer

her, “Now wait till I return;” and she, “My Lord,”—like one in whom

grief is hasty,—“if thou return not?” And he, “He who shall be where I

am will do it for thee.” And she, “What will the good deed of another

be to thee if thou art mindless of thine own?” Whereon he, “Now comfort

thee; for it behoves that I discharge my own duty ere I go; justice

requires it, and pity constrains me.” He who hath never seen new thing

[2] had produced that visible speech, novel to us, since on earth it is

not found.

[1] This legend of Trajan had great vogue during the Middle Ages. It

was believed that Pope Gregory the Great interceded for him, praying

that he might be delivered from Hell; “then God because of these

prayers drew that soul from pain and put it into glory.” This was

Gregory’s great victory. See Paradise, XX., p. 131.

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

While I was delighting me with regarding the images of such great

humilities, and for their Maker’s sake dear to behold, “Lo, on this

side many people, but they make few steps,” murmured the Poet. “They

will put us on the way to the high stairs.” My eyes that were intent on

looking in order to see novelties whereof they are fain, in turning

toward him were not slow.

I would not, indeed, Reader, that thou be dismayed at thy good purpose,

through hearing how God wills that the debt be paid. Attend not to the

form of the suffering; think on what follows; think that at worst

beyond the Great Judgment it cannot go!

I began, “Master, that which I see moving toward us, seems to me not

persons, but what I know not, my look is so in vain.” And he to me,

“The heavy condition of their torment so presses them to earth, that

mine own eyes at first had contention with it. But look fixedly there,

and disentangle with thy sight that which cometh beneath those stones;

now thou canst discern how each is smitten.”

O proud Christians, wretched weary ones, who, diseased in vision of the

mind, have confidence in backward steps, are ye not aware that we are

worms born to form the angelic butterfly which flies unto judgment

without defence? Why doth your mind float up aloft, since ye are as it

were defective insects, even as a worm in which formation fails?

As sometimes for support of ceiling or roof, by way of corbel, a figure

is seen joining its knees to its breast, which out of its unreality

makes a real pang rise in him who sees it, thus fashioned saw I these

when I gave good heed. True it is that they were more or less

contracted according as they had more or less upon their backs; and he

who had most patience in his looks, weeping, appeared to say, “I can no

more.”

CANTO XI.

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

Agubbio.—Provinzan Salvani.

“O our Father who art in Heaven, not circumscribed, but through the

greater love which to the first effects on high Thou hast,[1] praised

be Thy name and Thy power by every creature, even as it is befitting to

render thanks to Thy sweet effluence. May the peace of Thy Kingdom come

towards us, for we to it cannot of ourselves, if it come not, with all

our striving. As of their will Thine angels, singing Hosanna, make

sacrifice to Thee, so may men make of theirs. Give us this day the

daily manna, without which through this rough desert he backward goes,

who toils most to go on. And as we pardon every one for the wrong that

we have suffered, even do Thou, benignant, pardon and regard not our

desert. Our virtue which is easily overcome put not to proof with the

old adversary, but deliver from him who so spurs it. This last prayer,

dear Lord, truly is not made for ourselves, for it is not needful, but

for those who behind us have remained.”

[1] Not circumscribed by Heaven, but having Thy seat there because of

the love Thou bearest to the first effects—the angels, and the

heavens—of Thyself the First Cause.

Thus praying for themselves and us good speed, those souls were going

under the weight, like that of which one sometimes dreams, unequally in

anguish, all of them round and round, and weary, along the first

cornice, purging away the mists of the world. If good they ask for us

always there, what can here be said and done for them by those who have

a good root for their will? Truly we ought to aid them to wash away the

marks which they bore hence, so that pure and light they may go forth

unto the starry wheels.

“Ah! so may justice and pity unburden you speedily that ye may be able

to move the wing, which according to your desire may lift you, show on

which hand is the shortest way towards the stair; and if there is more

than one pass, point out to us that which least steeply slopes; for

this man who comes with me, because of the load of the flesh of Adam

wherewith he is clothed, is chary against his will of mounting up.” It

was not manifest from whom came the words which they returned to these

that he whom I was following had spoken, but it was said, “To the right

hand along the bank come ye with us, and ye will find the pass possible

for a living person to ascend. And if I were not hindered by the stone

which tames my proud neck, wherefore I needs must carry my face low, I

would look at that one who is still alive and is not named, to see if I

know him, and to make him pitiful of this burden. I was Italian, and

born of a great Tuscan; Guglielmo Aldobrandesco was my father: I know

not if his name was ever with you.[1] The ancient blood and the gallant

deeds of my ancestors made me so arrogant that, not thinking on the

common mother, I held every man in scorn to such extreme that I died

therefor, as the Sienese know, and every child in Campagnatico knows

it. I am Omberto: and not only unto me Pride doth harm, for all my

kinsfolk bath she dragged with her into calamity; and here must I heap

this weight on her account till God be satisfied,—here among the dead,

since I did it not among the living.”

[1] The Aldobrandeschi were the counts of Santa Fiore (see Canto VI.)

in the Sienese Maremma. Little is known of them, but that they were in

constant feud with Siena. The one who speaks was murdered in his own

stronghold of Campagnatico, in 1259.

Listening, I bent down my face; and one of them, not he who was

speaking, twisted himself under the weight that hampers him; and he saw

me, and recognized me and called out, keeping his eyes with effort

fixed on me, who was going along all stooping with him.[1] “Oh,” said I

to him, “art thou not Oderisi, the honor of Gubbio, and the honor of

that art which in Paris is called illumination?” “Brother,” said he,

“more smiling are the leaves that Franco of Bologna pencils; the honor

is now all his, and mine in part.[2] Truly I should not have been so

courteous while I lived, because of the great desire of excelling

whereon my heart was intent. Of such pride here is paid the fee; and

yet I should not be here, were it not that, still having power to sin,

I turned me unto God. Oh vainglory of human powers! how little lasts

the green upon the top, if it be not followed by dull ages.[3] Cimabue

thought to hold the field in painting, and now Giotto has the cry, so

that the fame of him is obscured. In like manner one Guido hath taken

from the other the glory of the language; and he perhaps is born who

shall drive both one and the other from the nest.[4] Worldly renown is

naught but a breath of wind, which now comes hence and now comes

thence, and changes name because it changes quarter. What more fame

shalt thou have, if thou strippest old flesh from thee, than if thou

hadst died ere thou hadst left the pap and the chink,[5] before a

thousand years have passed?—which is a shorter space compared to the

eternal than a movement of the eyelids to the circle that is slowest

turned in Heaven. With him who takes so little of the road in front of

me, all Tuscany resounded, and now he scarce is lisped of in Siena,

where he was lord when the Florentine rage was destroyed,[6] which at

that time was proud, as now it is prostitute. Your reputation is color

of grass that comes and goes, and he[7] discolors it through whom it

came up fresh from the earth.” And I to him, “Thy true speech brings

good humility to my heart, and thou allayest a great swelling in me;

but who is he of whom thou now wast speaking?” “He is,” he answered,

“Provinzan Salvani;[8] and he is here, because he was presumptuous in

bringing all Siena to his hands. He has gone thus—and he goes without

repose—ever since he died: such money doth he pay in satisfaction, who

is on earth too daring.” And I, “If that spirit who awaits the verge of

life ere he repents abides there below, and unless good prayer further

him ascends not hither, ere as much time pass us he lived, how has this

coining been granted unto him?” “When he was living most renowned,”

said he, “laying aside all shame, of his own accord he planted himself

in the Campo of Siena,[9] and there, to draw his friend from the

punishment he was enduring in the prison of Charles, brought himself to

tremble in every vein. More I will not say, and I know that I speak

darkly; but little time will pass, before thy neighbors will so act

that thou wilt he able to gloss it.[10] This deed released him from

those limits.”[11]

[1] This stooping is the symbol of Dante’s consciousness of pride as

his own besetting sin.

[2] Oderisi of Gubbio and Franco of Bologna were both eminent in the

art called miniare in Italian, enluminer in French.

[3] Ages in which no progress is made.

[4] The first Guido is doubtless Guido Guinicelli, whom Dante calls

(see Canto XXVI.) his master; the other probably Dante’s friend, Guido

Cavalcanti.

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

“money.”

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

battle of Montaperti.

[7] The sun.

[8] Provinzano Salvani was one of the chief supporters of the

Ghibelline cause in Tuscany. He was a man of great qualities and

capacity, but proud and presumptuous. Defeated and taken prisoner at

the battle of Colle, in 1269, he was beheaded.

[9] The Campo of Siena is her chief public square and marketplace, set

round with palaces. The friend of Provinzano is said by the old

commentators to have fought for Conradin against Charles of Anjou, and,

being taken captive, to have been condemned to death. His ransom was

fixed at ten thousand florins. Provinzano, not being able to pay this

sum from his own means, took his seat in the Campo and humiliated

himself to beg of the passers-by.

[10] The meaning of the dark words seems to be: Exile and poverty will

compel thee to beg, and begging to tremble in every vein.

[11] This deed of humility and charity released him from the necessity

of tarrying outside the gate of Purgatory.

CANTO XII.

First Ledge: the Proud.—Examples of the punishment of Pride graven on

the pavement.—Meeting with an Angel who removes one of the P’s.—Ascent

to the Second Ledge.

Side by side, like oxen who go yoked, I went on with that burdened

spirit so long as the sweet Pedagogue allowed it; but when he said,

“Leave him, and come on, for here it is well that, both with sail and

oars, each as much as he can should urge his bark,” I straitened up my

body again, as is required for walking, although my thoughts remained

both bowed down and abated.