Ninth Circle: Traitors. Fourth ring: Judecca.—Lucifer.—Judas, Brutus
and Cassius.—Centre of the universe.—Passage from Hell.—Ascent to the
surface of the Southern hemisphere.
INTRODUCTION.
So many versions of the Divine Comedy exist in English that a new one
might well seem needless. But most of these translations are in verse,
and the intellectual temper of our time is impatient of a transmutation
in which substance is sacrificed for form’s sake, and the new form is
itself different from the original. The conditions of verse in
different languages vary so widely as to make any versified translation
of a poem but an imperfect reproduction of the archetype. It is like an
imperfect mirror that renders but a partial likeness, in which
essential features are blurred or distorted. Dante himself, the first
modern critic, declared that “nothing harmonized by a musical bond can
be transmuted from its own speech without losing all its sweetness and
harmony,” and every fresh attempt at translation affords a new proof of
the truth of his assertion. Each language exhibits its own special
genius in its poetic forms. Even when they are closely similar in
rhythmical method their poetic effect is essentially different, their
individuality is distinct. The hexameter of the Iliad is not the
hexameter of the Aeneid. And if this be the case in respect to related
forms, it is even more obvious in respect to forms peculiar to one
language, like the terza rima of the Italian, for which it is
impossible to find a satisfactory equivalent in another tongue.
If, then, the attempt be vain to reproduce the form or to represent its
effect in a translation, yet the substance of a poem may have such
worth that it deserves to be known by readers who must read it in their
own tongue or not at all. In this case the aim of the translator should
be to render the substance fully, exactly, and with as close a
correspondence to the tone and style of the original as is possible
between prose and poetry. Of the charm, of the power of the poem such a
translation can give but an inadequate suggestion; the musical bond was
of its essence, and the loss of the musical bond is the loss of the
beauty to which form and substance mutually contributed, and in which
they were both alike harmonized and sublimated. The rhythmic life of
the original is its vital spirit, and the translation losing this vital
spirit is at best as the dull plaster cast to the living marble or the
breathing bronze. The intellectual substance is there; and if the work
be good, something of the emotional quality may be conveyed; the
imagination may mould the prose as it moulded the verse,—but, after
all, “translations are but as turn-coated things at best,” as Howell
said in one of his Familiar Letters.
No poem in any tongue is more informed with rhythmic life than the
Divine Comedy. And yet, such is its extraordinary distinction, no poem
has an intellectual and emotional substance more independent of its
metrical form. Its complex structure, its elaborate measure and rhyme,
highly artificial as they are, are so mastered by the genius of the
poet as to become the most natural expression of the spirit by which
the poem is inspired; while at the same time the thought and sentiment
embodied in the verse is of such import, and the narrative of such
interest, that they do not lose their worth when expressed in the prose
of another tongue; they still have power to quicken imagination, and to
evoke sympathy.
In English there is an excellent prose translation of the Inferno, by
Dr. John Carlyle, a man well known to the reader of his brother’s
Correspondence. It was published forty years ago, but it is still
contemporaneous enough in style to answer every need, and had Dr.
Carlyle made a version of the whole poem I should hardly have cared to
attempt a new one. In my translation of the Inferno I am often Dr.
Carlyle’s debtor. His conception of what a translation should be is
very much the same as my own. Of the Purgatorio there is a prose
version which has excellent qualities, by Mr. W. S. Dugdale. Another
version of great merit, of both the Purgatorio and Paradiso, is that of
Mr. A. J. Butler. It is accompanied by a scholarly and valuable
comment, and I owe much to Mr. Butler’s work. But through what seems to
me occasional excess of literal fidelity his English is now and then
somewhat crabbed. “He overacts the office of an interpreter,” I cite
again from Howell, “who doth enslave himself too strictly to words or
phrases. One may be so over-punctual in words that he may mar the
matter.”
I have tried to be as literal in my translation as was consistent with
good English, and to render Dante’s own words in words as nearly
correspondent to them as the difference in the languages would permit.
But it is to be remembered that the familiar uses and subtle
associations which give to words their full meaning are never
absolutely the same in two languages. Love in English not only SOUNDS
but IS different from amor in Latin, or amore in Italian. Even the most
felicitous prose translation must fail therefore at times to afford the
entire and precise meaning of the original.
Moreover, there are difficulties in Dante’s poem for Italians, and
there are difficulties in the translation for English readers. These,
where it seemed needful, I have endeavored to explain in brief
footnotes. But I have desired to avoid distracting the attention of the
reader from the narrative, and have mainly left the understanding of it
to his good sense and perspicacity. The clearness of Dante’s
imaginative vision is so complete, and the character of his narration
of it so direct and simple, that the difficulties in understanding his
intention are comparatively few.
It is a noticeable fact that in by far the greater number of passages
where a doubt in regard to the interpretation exists, the obscurity
lies in the rhyme-word. For with all the abundant resources of the
Italian tongue in rhyme, and with all Dante’s mastery of them, the
truth still is that his triple rhyme often compelled him to exact from
words such service as they did not naturally render and as no other
poet had required of them. The compiler of the Ottimo Commento records,
in an often-cited passage, that “I, the writer, heard Dante say that
never a rhyme had led him to say other than he would, but that many a
time and oft he had made words say for him what they were not wont to
express for other poets.” The sentence has a double truth, for it
indicates not only Dante’s incomparable power to compel words to give
out their full meaning, but also his invention of new uses for them,
his employment of them in unusual significations or in forms hardly
elsewhere to be found. These devices occasionally interfere with the
limpid flow of his diction, but the difficulties of interpretation to
which they give rise serve rather to mark the prevailing clearness and
simplicity of his expression than seriously to impede its easy and
unperplexed current. There are few sentences in the Divina Commedia in
which a difficulty is occasioned by lack of definiteness of thought or
distinctness of image.
A far deeper-lying and more pervading source of imperfect comprehension
of the poem than any verbal difficulty exists in the double or triple
meaning that runs through it. The narrative of the poet’s spiritual
journey is so vivid and consistent that it has all the reality of an
account of an actual experience; but within and beneath runs a stream
of allegory not less consistent and hardly less continuous than the
narrative itself. To the illustration and carrying out of this interior
meaning even the minutest details of external incident are made to
contribute, with an appropriateness of significance, and with a freedom
from forced interpretation or artificiality of construction such as no
other writer of allegory has succeeded in attaining. The poem may be
read with interest as a record of experience without attention to its
inner meaning, but its full interest is only felt when this inner
meaning is traced, and the moral significance of the incidents of the
story apprehended by the alert intelligence. The allegory is the soul
of the poem, but like the soul within the body it does not show itself
in independent existence. It is, in scholastic phrase, the form of the
body, giving to it its special individuality. Thus in order truly to
understand and rightly appreciate the poem the reader must follow its
course with a double intelligence. “Taken literally,” as Dante declares
in his Letter to Can Grande, “the subject is the state of the soul
after death, simply considered. But, allegorically taken, its subject
is man, according as by his good or ill deserts he renders himself
liable to the reward or punishment of Justice.” It is the allegory of
human life; and not of human life as an abstraction, but of the
individual life; and herein, as Mr. Lowell, whose phrase I borrow, has
said, “lie its profound meaning and its permanent force.”[1] And herein
too lie its perennial freshness of interest, and the actuality which
makes it contemporaneous with every successive generation. The increase
of knowledge, the loss of belief in doctrines that were fundamental in
Dante’s creed, the changes in the order of society, the new thoughts of
the world, have not lessened the moral import of the poem, any more
than they have lessened its excellence as a work of art. Its real
substance is as independent as its artistic beauty, of science, of
creed, and of institutions. Human nature has not changed; the motives
of action are the same, though their relative force and the desires and
ideals by which they are inspired vary from generation to generation.
And thus it is that the moral judgments of life framed by a great poet
whose imagination penetrates to the core of things, and who, from his
very nature as poet, conceives and sets forth the issues of life not in
a treatise of abstract morality, but by means of sensible types and
images, never lose interest, and have a perpetual contemporaneousness.
They deal with the permanent and unalterable elements of the soul of
man.
[1] Mr. Lowell’s essay on Dante makes other writing about the poet or
the poem seem ineffectual and superfluous. I must assume that it will
be familiar to the readers of my version, at least to those among them
who desire truly to understand the Divine Comedy.
The scene of the poem is the spiritual world, of which we are members
even while still denizens of the world of time. In the spiritual world
the results of sin or perverted love, and of virtue or right love, in
this life of probation, are manifest. The life to come is but the
fulfilment of the life that now is. This is the truth that Dante sought
to enforce. The allegory in which he cloaked it is of a character that
separates the Divine Comedy from all other works of similar intent. In
The Pilgrim’s Progress, for example, the personages introduced are mere
simulacra of men and women, the types of moral qualities or religious
dispositions. They are abstractions which the genius of Bunyan fails to
inform with vitality sufficient to kindle the imagination of the reader
with a sense of their actual, living and breathing existence. But in
the Divine Comedy the personages are all from real life, they are men
and women with their natural passions and emotions, and they are
undergoing an actual experience. The allegory consists in making their
characters and their fates, what all human characters and fates really
are, the types and images of spiritual law. Virgil and Beatrice, whose
nature as depicted in the poem makes nearest approach to purely
abstract and typical existence, are always consistently presented as
living individuals, exalted indeed in wisdom and power, but with hardly
less definite and concrete humanity than that of Dante himself.
The scheme of the created Universe held by the Christians of the Middle
Ages was comparatively simple, and so definite that Dante, in accepting
it in its main features without modification, was provided with the
limited stage that was requisite for his design, and of which the
general disposition was familiar to all his readers. The three
spiritual realms had their local bounds marked out as clearly as those
of time earth itself. Their cosmography was but an extension of the
largely hypothetical geography of the tune.
The Earth was the centre of the Universe, and its northern hemisphere
was the abode of man. At the middle point of this hemisphere stood
Jerusalem, equidistant from the Pillars of Hercules on the West, and
the Ganges on the East.
Within the body of this hemisphere was hell, shared as a vast cone, of
which the apex was the centre of the globe; and here, according to
Dante, was the seat of Lucifer. The concave of Hell had been formed by
his fall, when a portion of the solid earth, through fear of him, ran
back to the southern uninhabited hemisphere, and formed there, directly
antipodal to Jerusalem, the mountain of Purgatory which rose from the
waste of waters that covered this half of the globe. Purgatory was
shaped as a cone, of similar dimensions to that of Hell, amid at its
summit was the Terrestrial Paradise.
Immediately surrounding the atmosphere of the Earth was the sphere of
elemental fire. Around this was the Heaven of the Moon, and encircling
this, in order, were the Heavens of Mercury, Venus, the Sun, Mars,
Jove, Saturn, the Fixed Stars, and the Crystalline or first moving
Heaven. These nine concentric Heavens revolved continually around the
Earth, and in proportion to their distance from it was time greater
swiftness of each. Encircling all was the Empyrean, increate,
incorporeal, motionless, unbounded in time or space, the proper seat of
God, the home of the Angels, the abode of the Elect.
The Angelic Hierarchy consisted of nine orders, corresponding to the
nine moving heavens. Their blessedness and the swiftness of time motion
with which in unending delight they circled around God were in
proportion to their nearness to Him, —first the Seraphs, then the
Cherubs, Thrones, Dominations, Virtues, Powers, Princes, Archangels,
and Angels. Through them, under the general name of Intelligences, the
Divine influence was transmitted to the Heavens, giving to them their
circular motion, which was the expression of their longing to be united
with the source of their creation. The Heavens in their turn streamed
down upon the Earth the Divine influence thus distributed among them,
in varying proportion and power, producing divers effects in the
generation and corruption of material things, and in the dispositions
and the lives of men.
Such was the general scheme of the Universe. The intention of God in
its creation was to communicate of his own perfection to the creatures
endowed with souls, that is, to men and to angels, and the proper end
of every such creature was to seek its own perfection in likeness to
the Divine. This end was attained through that knowledge of God of
which the soul was capable, and through love which was in proportion to
knowledge. Virtue depended on the free will of man; it was the good use
of that will directed to a right object of love. Two lights were given
to the soul for guidance of the will: the light of reason for natural
things and for the direction of the will to moral virtue the light of
grace for things supernatural, and for the direction of the will to
spiritual virtue. Sin was the opposite of virtue, the choice by the
will of false objects of love; it involved the misuse of reason, and
the absence of grace. As the end of virtue was blessedness, so the end
of sin was misery.
The cornerstone of Dante’s moral system was the Freedom of the Will; in
other words, the right of private judgment with the condition of
accountability. This is the liberty which Dante, that is man, goes
seeking in his journey through the spiritual world. This liberty is to
be attained through the right use of reason, illuminated by Divine
Grace; it consists in the perfect accord of the will of man with the
will of God.
With this view of the nature and end of man Dante’s conception of the
history of the race could not be other than that its course was
providentially ordered. The fall of man had made him a just object of
the vengeance of God; but the elect were to be redeemed, and for their
redemption the history of the world from the beginning was directed.
Not only in his dealings with the Jews, but in his dealings with the
heathen was God preparing for the reconciliation of man, to be finally
accomplished in his sacrifice of Himself for them. The Roman Empire was
foreordained and established for this end. It was to prepare the way
for the establishment of the Roman Church. It was the appointed
instrument for the political government of men. Empire and Church were
alike divine institutions for the guidance of man on earth.
The aim of Dante in the Divine Comedy was to set forth these truths in
such wise as to affect the imaginations and touch the hearts of men, so
that they should turn to righteousness. His conviction of these truths
was no mere matter of belief; it had the ardor and certainty of faith.
They had appeared to him in all their fulness as a revelation of the
Divine wisdom. It was his work as poet, as poet with a divine
commission, to make this revelation known. His work was a work of
faith; it was sacred; to it both Heaven and Earth had set their hands.
To this work, as I have said, the definiteness and the limits of the
generally accepted theory of the Universe gave the required frame. The
very narrowness of this scheme made Dante’s design practicable. He had
had the experience of a man on earth. He had been lured by false
objects of desire from the pursuit of the true good. But Divine Grace,
in the form of Beatrice, who had of old on earth led him aright, now
intervened and sent to his aid Virgil, who, as the type of Human
Reason, should bring him safe through Hell, showing to him the eternal
consequences of sin, and then should conduct him, penitent, up the
height of Purgatory, till on its summit, in the Earthly Paradise,
Beatrice should appear once more to him. Thence she, as the type of
that knowledge through which comes the love of God, should lead him,
through the Heavens up to the Empyrean, to the consummation of his
course in the actual vision of God.
AIDS TO THE STUDY OF THE DIVINE COMEDY.
The Essay by Mr. Lowell, to which I have already referred (Dante,
Lowell’s Prose Works, vol. iv.) is the best introduction to the study
of the poem. It should be read and re-read.
Dante, an essay by the late Dean Church, is the work of a learned and
sympathetic scholar, and is an excellent treatise on the life, times,
and work of the poet.
The Notes and Illustrations that accompany Mr. Longfellow’s translation
of the Divine Comedy form an admirable body of comment on the poem.
The Rev. Dr. Edward Moore’s little volume, on The Time-References in
the Divina Cominedia (London, 1887), is of great value in making the
progress of Dante’s journey clear, and in showing Dante’s scrupulous
consistency of statement. Dr. Moore’s more recent work, Contributions
to the Textual Criticism of the Divina Commedia (Cambridge, 1889), is
to be warmly commended to the advanced student.
These sources of information are enough for the mere English reader.
But one who desires to make himself a thorough master of the poem must
turn to foreign sources of instruction: to Carl Witte’s invaluable
Dante-Forschungen (2 vols. Halle, 1869); to the comment, especially
that on the Paradiso, which accompanies the German translation of the
Divine Comedy by Philalethes. the late King John of Saxony; to
Bartoli’s life of Dante in his Storia della Letteratura Italiana
(Firenze, 1878 and subsequent years), and to Scartazzini’s Prolegomeni
della Divina Commedia (Leipzig, 1890). The fourteenth century Comments,
especially those of Boccaccio, of Buti, and of Benvenuto da Imola, are
indispensable to one who would understand the poem as it was understood
by Dante’s immediate contemporaries and successors. It is from them and
from the Chronicle of Dante’s contemporary and fellow-citizen, Giovanni
Villani, that our knowledge concerning many of the personages mentioned
in the Poem is derived.
In respect to the theology and general doctrine of the Poem, the Summa
Theologica of St. Thomas Aquinas is the main source from which Dante
himself drew.
Of editions of the Divina Commedia in Italian, either that of Andreoli,
or of Bianchi, or of Fraticelli, each in one volume, may be recommended
to the beginner. Scartazzini’s edition in three volumes is the best, in
spite of some serious defects, for the deeper student.
HELL.
CANTO I.
Dante, astray in a wood, reaches the foot of a hill which he begins to
ascend; he is hindered by three beasts; he turns back and is met by
Virgil, who proposes to guide him into the eternal world.
Midway upon the road of our life I found myself within a dark wood, for
the right way had been missed. Ah! how hard a thing it is to tell what
this wild and rough and dense wood was, which in thought renews the
fear! So bitter is it that death is little more. But in order to treat
of the good that there I found, I will tell of the other things that I
have seen there. I cannot well recount how I entered it, so full was I
of slumber at that point where I abandoned the true way. But after I
had arrived at the foot of a hill, where that valley ended which had
pierced my heart with fear, I looked on high, and saw its shoulders
clothed already with the rays of the planet[1] that leadeth men aright
along every path. Then was the fear a little quieted which in the lake
of my heart had lasted through the night that I passed so piteously.
And even as one who with spent breath, issued out of the sea upon the
shore, turns to the perilous water and gazes, so did my soul, which
still was flying, turn back to look again upon the pass which never had
a living person left.
[1] The sun, a planet according to the Ptolemaic system.
After I had rested a little my weary body I took my way again along the
desert slope, so that the firm foot was always the lower. And lo!
almost at the beginning of the steep a she-leopard, light and very
nimble, which was covered with a spotted coat. And she did not move
from before my face, nay, rather hindered so my road that to return I
oftentimes had turned.
The time was at the beginning of the morning, and the Sun was mounting
upward with those stars that were with him when Love Divine first set
in motion those beautiful things;[1] so that the hour of the time and
the sweet season were occasion of good hope to me concerning that wild
beast with the dappled skin. But not so that the sight which appeared
to me of a lion did not give me fear. He seemed to be coming against
me, with head high and with ravening hunger, so that it seemed that the
air was affrighted at him. And a she-wolf,[2] who with all cravings
seemed laden in her meagreness, and already had made many folk to live
forlorn,—she caused me so much heaviness, with the fear that came from
sight of her, that I lost hope of the height And such as he is who
gaineth willingly, and the time arrives that makes him lose, who in all
his thoughts weeps and is sad,—such made me the beast without repose
that, coming on against me, little by little was pushing me back
thither where the Sun is silent.
[1] According to old tradition the spring was the season of the
creation.
[2] These three beasts correspond to the triple division of sins into
those of incontinence, of violence, and of fraud. See Canto XI.
While I was falling back to the low place, before mine eyes appeared
one who through long silence seemed hoarse. When I saw him in the great
desert, “Have pity on me!” I cried to him, “whatso thou art, or shade
or real man.” He answered me: “Not man; man once I was, and my parents
were Lombards, and Mantuans by country both. I was born sub Julio,
though late, and I lived at Rome under the good Augustus, in the time
of the false and lying gods. Poet was I, and sang of that just son of
Anchises who came from Troy after proud Ilion had been burned. But
thou, why returnest thou to so great annoy? Why dost thou not ascend
the delectable mountain which is the source and cause of every joy?”
“Art thou then that Virgil and that fount which poureth forth so large
a stream of speech?” replied I to him with bashful front: “O honor and
light of the other poem I may the long seal avail me, and the great
love, which have made me search thy volume! Thou art my master and my
author; thou alone art he from whom I took the fair style that hath
done me honor. Behold the beast because of which I turned; help me
against her, famous sage, for she makes any veins and pulses tremble.”
“Thee it behoves to hold another course,” he replied, when he saw me
weeping, “if thou wishest to escape from this savage place; for this
beast, because of which thou criest out, lets not any one pass along
her way, but so hinders him that she kills him! and she has a nature so
malign and evil that she never sates her greedy will, and after food is
hungrier than before. Many are the animals with which she wives, and
there shall be more yet, till the hound[1] shall come that will make
her die of grief. He shall not feed on land or goods, but wisdom and
love and valor, and his birthplace shall be between Feltro and Feltro.
Of that humble[2] Italy shall he be the salvation, for which the virgin
Camilla died, and Euryalus, Turnus and Nisus of their wounds. He shall
hunt her through every town till he shall have set her back in hell,
there whence envy first sent her forth. Wherefore I think and deem it
for thy best that thou follow me, and I will be thy guide, and will
lead thee hence through the eternal place where thou shalt hear the
despairing shrieks, shalt see the ancient spirits woeful who each
proclaim the second death. And then thou shalt see those who are
contented in the fire, because they hope to come, whenever it may be,
to the blessed folk; to whom if thou wilt thereafter ascend, then shall
be a soul more worthy than I for that. With her I will leave thee at my
departure; for that Emperor who reigneth them above, because I was
rebellious to His law, wills not that into His city any one should come
through me. In all parts He governs and them He reigns: there in His
city and His lofty seat. O happy he whom thereto He elects!” And I to
him, “Poet, I beseech thee by that God whom thou didst not know, in
order that I may escape this ill and worse, that thou lead me thither
whom thou now hast said, so that I may see the gate of St. Peter, and
those whom thou makest so afflicted.”
[1] Of whom the hound is the symbol, and to whom Dante looked for the
deliverance of Italy from the discorda and misrule that made her
wretched, is still matter of doubt, after centuries of controversy.
[2] Fallen, humiliated.
Then he moved on, and I behind him kept.
CANTO II.
Dante, doubtful of his own powers, is discouraged at the outset.—Virgil
cheers him by telling him that he has been sent to his aid by a blessed
Spirit from Heaven.—Dante casts off fear, and the poets proceed.
The day was going, and the dusky air was taking the living things that
are on earth from their fatigues, and I alone was preparing to sustain
the war alike of the road, and of the woe which the mind that erreth
not shall retrace. O Muses, O lofty genius, now assist me! O mind that
didst inscribe that which I saw, here shall thy nobility appear! I
began:—“Poet, that guidest me, consider my virtue, if it is sufficient,
ere to the deep pass thou trustest me. Thou sayest that the parent of
Silvius while still corruptible went to the immortal world and was
there in the body. Wherefore if the Adversary of every ill was then
courteous, thinking on the high effect that should proceed from him,
and on the Who and the What,[1] it seemeth not unmeet to the man of
understanding; for in the empyreal heaven he had been chosen for father
of revered Rome and of her empire; both which (to say truth indeed)
were ordained for the holy place where the successor of the greater
Peter hath his seat. Through this going, whereof thou givest him vaunt,
he learned things which were the cause of his victory and of the papal
mantle. Afterward the Chosen Vessel went thither to bring thence
comfort to that faith which is the beginning of the way of salvation.
But I, why go I thither? or who concedes it? I am not Aeneas, I am not
Paul; me worthy of this, neither I nor others think; wherefore if I
give myself up to go, I fear lest the going may be mad. Thou art wise,
thou understandest better than I speak.”
[1] Who he was, and what should result.
And as is he who unwills what he willed, and because of new thoughts
changes his design, so that he quite withdraws from beginning, such I
became on that dark hillside: wherefore in my thought I abandoned the
enterprise which had been so hasty in the beginning.
“If I have rightly understood thy speech,” replied that shade of the
magnanimous one, “thy soul is hurt by cowardice, which oftentimes
encumbereth a man so that it turns him back from honorable enterprise,
as false seeing does a beast when it is startled. In order that thou
loose thee from this fear I will tell thee wherefore I have come, and
what I heard at the first moment that I grieved for thee. I was among
those who are suspended,[1] and a Lady called me, so blessed and
beautiful that I besought her to command. Her eyes were more lucent
than the star, and she began to speak to me sweet and low, with angelic
voice, in her own tongue: ‘O courteous Mantuan soul, of whom the fame
yet lasteth in the world, and shall last so long as the world endureth!
a friend of mine and not of fortune upon the desert hillside is so
hindered on his road that he has turned for fear, and I am afraid,
through that which I have heard of him in heaven, lest already he be so
astray that I may have risen late to his succor. Now do thou move, and
with thy speech ornate, and with whatever is needful for his
deliverance, assist him so that I may be consoled for him. I am
Beatrice who make thee go. I come from a place whither I desire to
return. Love moved me, and makes me speak. When I shall be before my
Lord, I will commend thee often unto Him.’ Then she was silent, and
thereon I began: ‘O Lady of Virtue, thou alone through whom the human
race surpasseth all contained within that heaven which hath the
smallest circles![2] so pleasing unto me is thy command that to obey
it, were it already done, were slow to me. Thou hast no need further to
open unto me thy will; but tell me the cause why thou guardest not
thyself from descending down here into this centre, from the ample
place whither thou burnest to return.’ ‘Since thou wishest to know so
inwardly, I will tell thee briefly,’ she replied to me, ‘wherefore I
fear not to come here within. One ought to fear those things only that
have power of doing harm, the others not, for they are not dreadful. I
am made by God, thanks be to Him, such that your misery toucheth me
not, nor doth the flame of this burning assail me. A gentle Lady[3] is
in heaven who hath pity for this hindrance whereto I send thee, so that
stern judgment there above she breaketh. She summoned Lucia in her
request, and said, “Thy faithful one now hath need of thee, and unto
thee I commend him.” Lucia, the foe of every cruel one, rose and came
to the place where I was, seated with the ancient Rachel. She said,
“Beatrice, true praise of God, why dost thou not succor him who so
loved thee that for thee he came forth from the vulgar throng? Dost
thou not hear the pity of his plaint? Dost thou not see the death that
combats him beside the stream whereof the sea hath no vaunt?” In the
world never were persons swift to seek their good, and to fly their
harm, as I, after these words were uttered, came here below, from my
blessed seat, putting my trust in thy upright speech, which honors thee
and them who have heard it.’ After she had said this to me, weeping she
turned her lucent eyes, whereby she made me more speedy in coming. And
I came to thee as she willed. Thee have I delivered from that wild
beast that took from thee the short ascent of the beautiful mountain.
What is it then? Why, why dost thou hold back? why dost thou harbor
such cowardice in thy heart? why hast thou not daring and boldness,
since three blessed Ladies care for thee in the court of Heaven, and my
speech pledges thee such good?”
[1] In Limbo, neither in Hell nor Heaven.
[2] The heaven of the moon, nearest to the earth.
[3] The Virgin.
As flowerets, bent and closed by the chill of night, after the sun
shines on them straighten themselves all open on their stem, so I
became with my weak virtue, and such good daring hastened to my heart
that I began like one enfranchised: “Oh compassionate she who succored
me! and thou courteous who didst speedily obey the true words that she
addressed to thee! Thou by thy words hast so disposed my heart with
desire of going, that I have returned unto my first intent. Go on now,
for one sole will is in us both: Thou Leader, thou Lord, and thou
Master.” Thus I said to him; and when he had moved on, I entered along
the deep and savage road.
CANTO III.
The gate of Hell.—Virgil lends Dante in.—The punishment of the neither
good nor bad.—Acheron, and the sinners on its
bank.—Charon.—Earthquake.—Dante swoons.
“Through me is the way into the woeful city; through me is the way into
eternal woe; through me is the way among the lost people. Justice moved
my lofty maker: the divine Power, the supreme Wisdom and the primal
Love made me. Before me were no things created, unless eternal, and I
eternal last. Leave every hope, ye who enter!”
These words of color obscure I saw written at the top of a gate;
whereat I, “Master, their meaning is dire to me.”
And he to me, like one who knew, “Here it behoves to leave every fear;
it behoves that all cowardice should here be dead. We have come to the
place where I have told thee that thou shalt see the woeful people, who
have lost the good of the understanding.”
And when he had put his hand on mine, with a glad countenance,
wherefrom I took courage, he brought me within the secret things. Here
sighs, laments, and deep wailings were resounding though the starless
air; wherefore at first I wept thereat. Strange tongues, horrible
cries, words of woe, accents of anger, voices high and hoarse, and
sounds of hands with them, were making a tumult which whirls forever in
that air dark without change, like the sand when the whirlwind
breathes.
And I, who had my head girt with horror, said, “Master, what is it that
I hear? and what folk are they who seem in woe so vanquished?”
And he to me, “This miserable measure the wretched souls maintain of
those who lived without infamy and without praise. Mingled are they
with that caitiff choir of the angels, who were not rebels, nor were
faithful to God, but were for themselves. The heavens chased them out
in order to be not less beautiful, nor doth the depth of Hell receive
them, because the damned would have some glory from them.”
And I, “Master, what is so grievous to them, that makes them lament so
bitterly?”
He answered, “I will tell thee very briefly. These have no hope of
death; and their blind life is so debased, that they are envious of
every other lot. Fame of them the world permitteth not to be; mercy and
justice disdain them. Let us not speak of them, but do thou look and
pass on.”
And I, who was gazing, saw a banner, that whirling ran so swiftly that
it seemed to me to scorn all repose, and behind it came so long a train
of folk, that I could never have believed death had undone so many.
After I had distinguished some among them, I saw and knew the shade of
him who made, through cowardice, the great refusal.[1] At once I
understood and was certain, that this was the sect of the caitiffs
displeasing unto God, and unto his enemies. These wretches, who never
were alive, were naked, and much stung by gad-flies and by wasps that
were there. These streaked their faces with blood, which, mingled with
tears, was harvested at their feet by loathsome worms.
[1] Who is intended by these words is uncertain.
And when I gave myself to looking onward, I saw people on the bank of a
great river; wherefore I said, “Master, now grant to me that I may know
who these are, and what rule makes them appear so ready to pass over,
as I discern through the faint light.” And he to me, “The things will
be clear to thee, when we shall set our steps on the sad marge of
Acheron.” Then with eyes bashful and cast down, fearing lest my speech
had been irksome to him, far as to the river I refrained from speaking.
And lo! coming toward us in a boat, an old man, white with ancient
hair, crying, “Woe to you, wicked souls! hope not ever to see Heaven! I
come to carry you to the other bank, into eternal darkness, to heat and
frost. And thou who art there, living soul, depart from these that are
dead.” But when he saw that I did not depart, he said, “By another way,
by other ports thou shalt come to the shore, not here, for passage; it
behoves that a lighter bark bear thee.”[1]
[1] The boat that bears the souls to Purgatory. Charon recognizes that
Dante is not among the damned.
And my Leader to him, “Charon, vex not thyself, it is thus willed there
where is power to do that which is willed; and farther ask not.” Then
the fleecy cheeks were quiet of the pilot of the livid marsh, who round
about his eyes had wheels of flame.
But those souls, who were weary and naked, changed color, and gnashed
their teeth soon as they heard his cruel words. They blasphemed God and
their parents, the human race, the place, the time and the seed of
their sowing and of their birth. Then, bitterly weeping, they drew back
all of them together to the evil bank, that waits for every man who
fears not God. Charon the demon, with eyes of glowing coal, beckoning
them, collects them all; he beats with his oar whoever lingers.
As in autumn the leaves fall off one after the other, till the bough
sees all its spoils upon the earth, in like wise the evil seed of Adam
throw themselves from that shore one by one at signals, as the bird at
his call. Thus they go over the dusky wave, and before they have landed
on the farther side, already on this a new throng is gathered.
“My son,” said the courteous Master, “those who die in the wrath of
God, all meet together here from every land. And they are eager to pass
over the stream, for the divine justice spurs them, so that fear is
turned to desire. This way a good soul never passes; and therefore if
Charon snarleth at thee, thou now mayest well know what his speech
signifies.” This ended, the dark plain trembled so mightily, that the
memory of the terror even now bathes me with sweat. The tearful land
gave forth a wind that flashed a vermilion light which vanquished every
sense of mine, and I fell as a man whom slumber seizes.
CANTO IV.
The further side of Acheron.—Virgil leads Dante into Limbo, the First
Circle of Hell, containing the spirits of those who lived virtuously
but without Christianity.—Greeting of Virgil by his fellow poets.—They
enter a castle, where are the shades of ancient worthies.—Virgil and
Dante depart.
A heavy thunder broke the deep sleep in my head, so that I started up
like a person who by force is wakened. And risen erect, I moved my
rested eye round about, and looked fixedly to distinguish the place
where I was. True it is, that I found myself on the verge of the valley
of the woeful abyss that gathers in thunder of infinite wailings. Dark,
profound it was, and cloudy, so that though I fixed my sight on the
bottom I did not discern anything there.
“Now we descend down here into the blind world,” began the Poet all
deadly pale, “I will be first, and thou shalt be second.”
And I, who had observed his color, said, “How shall I come, if thou
fearest, who art wont to be a comfort to my doubting?” And he to me,
“The anguish of the folk who are down here depicts upon my face that
pity which thou takest for fear. Let us go on, for the long way urges
us.”
So he set forth, and so he made me enter within the first circle that
girds the abyss. Here, so far as could be heard, there was no plaint
but that of sighs which made the eternal air to tremble: this came of
the woe without torments felt by the crowds, which were many and great,
of infants and of women and of men.
The good Master to me, “Thou dost not ask what spirits are these that
thou seest. Now I would have thee know, before thou goest farther, that
they sinned not; and if they have merits it sufficeth not, because they
had not baptism, which is part of the faith that thou believest; and if
they were before Christianity, they did not duly worship God: and of
such as these am I myself. Through such defects, and not through other
guilt, are we lost, and only so far harmed that without hope we live in
desire.”
Great woe seized me at my heart when I heard him, because I knew that
people of much worth were suspended in that limbo. “Tell me, my Master,
tell me, Lord,” began I, with wish to be assured of that faith which
vanquishes every error,[1] “did ever any one who afterwards was blessed
go out from here, either by his own or by another’s merit?” And he, who
understood my covert speech, answered, “I was new in this state when I
saw a Mighty One come hither crowned with sign of victory. He drew out
hence the shade of the first parent, of Abel his son, and that of Noah,
of Moses the law-giver and obedient, Abraham the patriarch, and David
the King, Israel with his father, and with his offspring, and with
Rachel, for whom he did so much, and others many; and He made them
blessed: and I would have thee know that before these, human spirits
were not saved.”
[1] Wishing especially to be assured in regard to the descent of Christ
into Hell.
We ceased not going on because he spoke, but all the while were passing
through the wood, the wood I mean of crowded spirits. Nor yet had our
way been long from where I slept, when I saw a fire, that conquered a
hemisphere of darkness. We were still a little distant from it, yet not
so far that I could not partially discern that honorable folk possessed
that place. “O thou that honorest both science and art, these, who are
they, that have such honor that from the condition of the others it
sets them apart?” And he to me, “The honorable fame of them which
resounds above in thy life wins grace in heaven that so advances them.”
At this a voice was heard by me, “Honor the loftiest Poet! his shade
returns that was departed.” When the voice had ceased and was quiet, I
saw four great shades coming to us: they had a semblance neither sad
nor glad. The good Master began to say, “Look at him with that sword in
hand who cometh before the three, even as lord. He is Homer, the
sovereign poet; the next who comes is Horace, the satirist; Ovid is the
third, and the last is Lucan. Since each shares with me the name that
the single voice sounded, they do me honor, and in that do well.”
Thus I saw assembled the fair school of that Lord of the loftiest song
which above the others as an eagle flies. After they had discoursed
somewhat together, they turned to me with sign of salutation; and my
Master smiled thereat. And far more of honor yet they did me, for they
made me of their band, so that I was the sixth amid so much wit. Thus
we went on as far as the light, speaking things concerning which
silence is becoming, even as was speech there where I was.
We came to the foot of a noble castle, seven times circled by high
walls, defended round about by a fair streamlet. This we passed as if
hard ground; through seven gates I entered with these sages; we came to
a meadow of fresh verdure. People were there with eyes slow and grave,
of great authority in their looks; they spake seldom, and with soft
voices. Thus we drew apart, on one side, into a place open, luminous,
and high, so that they all could be seen. There opposite upon the green
enamel were shown to me the great spirits, whom to have seen I inwardly
exalt myself.
I saw Electra with many companions, among whom I knew both Hector and
Aeneas, Caesar in armor, with his gerfalcon eyes; I saw Camilla and
Penthesilea on the other side, and I saw the King Latinus, who was
seated with Lavinia his daughter. I saw that Brutus who drove out
Tarquin; Lucretia, Julia, Marcia, and Cornelia; and alone, apart, I saw
the Saladin. When I raised my brow a little more, I saw the Master of
those who know, seated amid the philosophic family; all regard him, all
do him honor. Here I saw both Socrates and Plato, who before the others
stand nearest to him; Democritus, who ascribes the world to chance;
Diogenes, Anaxagoras, and Thales, Empedocles, Heraclitus, and Zeno; and
I saw the good collector of the qualities, Dioscorides, I mean; and I
saw Orpheus, Tully, and Linus, and moral Seneca, Euclid the geometer,
and Ptolemy, Hippocrates, Avicenna, Galen, and Averrhoes, who made the
great comment. I cannot report of all in full, because the long theme
so drives me that many times speech comes short of fact.
The company of six is reduced to two. By another way the wise guide
leads me, out from the quiet, into the air that trembles, and I come
into a region where is nothing that can give light.
CANTO V.
The Second Circle, that of Carnal Sinners.—Minos.—Shades renowned of
old.—Francesca da Rimini.
Thus I descended from the first circle down into the second, which
girdles less space, and so much more woe that it goads to wailing.
There abides Minos horribly, and snarls; he examines the sins at the
entrance; he judges, and he sends according as he entwines himself. I
mean, that, when the miscreant spirit comes there before him, it
confesses itself wholly, and that discerner of sins sees what place of
Hell is for it; he girdles himself with his tail so many times as the
degrees he wills it should be sent down. Always before him stand many
of them. They go, in turn, each to the judgment; they speak, and hear,
and then are whirled below.
“O thou that comest to the woeful inn,” said Minos to me, when he saw
me, leaving the act of so great an office, “beware how thou enterest,
and to whom thou trustest thyself; let not the amplitude of the
entrance deceive thee.” And my Leader to him, “Why then dost thou cry
out? Hinder not his fated going; thus is it willed there where is power
to do that which is willed; and ask thou no more.”
Now the woeful notes begin to make themselves heard; now am I come
where much lamentation smites me. I had come into a place mute of all
light, that bellows as the sea does in a tempest, if it be combated by
opposing winds. The infernal hurricane that never rests carries along
the spirits in its rapine; whirling and smiting it molests them. When
they arrive before its rushing blast, here are shrieks, and bewailing,
and lamenting; here they blaspheme the power divine. I understood that
to such torment are condemned the carnal sinners who subject reason to
appetite. And as their wings bear along the starlings in the cold
season in a troop large and full, so that blast the evil spirits;
hither, thither, down, up it carries them; no hope ever comforts them,
not of repose, but even of less pain.
And as the cranes go singing their lays, making in air a long line of
themselves, so saw I come, uttering wails, shades borne along by the
aforesaid strife. Wherefore I said, “Master, who are those folk whom
the black air so castigates?” “The first of these of whom thou wishest
to have knowledge,” said he to me then, “was empress of many tongues.
To the vice of luxury was she so abandoned that lust she made licit in
her law, to take away the blame she had incurred. She is Semiramis, of
whom it is read that she succeeded Ninus and had been his spouse; she
held the land which the Soldan rules. That other is she who, for love,
killed herself, and broke faith to the ashes of Sichaeus. Next is
Cleopatra, the luxurious. See Helen, for whom so long a time of ill
revolved; and see the great Achilles, who at the end fought with love.
See Paris, Tristan,—” and more than a thousand shades he showed me with
his finger, and named them, whom love had parted from our life.
After I had heard my Teacher name the dames of eld and the cavaliers,
pity overcame me, and I was well nigh bewildered. I began, “Poet,
willingly would I speak with those two that go together, and seem to be
so light upon the wind.” And he to me, “Thou shalt see when they shall
be nearer to us, and do thou then pray them by that love which leads
them, and they will come.” Soon as the wind sways them toward us I
lifted my voice, “O weary souls, come speak to us, if One forbid it
not.”
As doves, called by desire, with wings open and steady, fly through the
air to their sweet nest, borne by their will, these issued from the
troop where Dido is, coming to us through the malign air, so strong was
the compassionate cry.
“O living creature, gracious and benign, that goest through the lurid
air visiting us who stained the world blood-red,—if the King of the
universe were a friend we would pray Him for thy peace, since thou hast
pity on our perverse ill. Of what it pleaseth thee to hear, and what to
speak, we will hear and we will speak to you, while the wind, as now,
is hushed for us. The city where I was born sits upon the sea-shore,
where the Po, with its followers, descends to have peace. Love, that on
gentle heart quickly lays hold, seized him for the fair person that was
taken from me, and the mode still hurts me. Love, which absolves no
loved one from loving, seized me for the pleasing of him so strongly
that, as thou seest, it does not even now abandon me. Love brought us
to one death. Caina awaits him who quenched our life.” These words were
borne to us from them.
Soon as I had heard those injured souls I bowed my face, and held it
down, until the Poet said to me, “What art thou thinking?” When I
replied, I began, “Alas! how many sweet thoughts, how great desire, led
these unto the woeful pass.” Then I turned me again to them, and I
spoke, and began, “Francesca, thy torments make me sad and piteous to
weeping. But tell me, at the time of the sweet sighs by what and how
did love concede to you to know the dubious desires?” And she to me,
“There is no greater woe than in misery to remember the happy time, and
that thy Teacher knows. But if to know the first root of our love thou
hast so great a longing, I will do like one who weeps and tells.
“We were reading one day, for delight, of Lancelot, how love
constrained him. We were alone and without any suspicion. Many times
that reading made us lift our eyes, and took the color from our faces,
but only one point was that which overcame us. When we read of the
longed-for smile being kissed by such a lover, this one, who never from
me shall be divided, kissed my mouth all trembling. Galahaut was the
book, and he who wrote it. That day we read in it no farther.”[1]
[1] In the Romance, it was Galahaut that prevailed on Guinevere to give
a kiss to Lancelot.
While one spirit said this the other was weeping so that through pity I
swooned, as if I had been dying, and fell as a dead body falls.
CANTO VI.
The Third Circle, that of the Gluttonous.—Cerberus.—Ciacco.
When the mind returned, which closed itself before the pity of these
two kinsfolk, that had all confounded me with sadness, new torments and
new tormented souls I see around me wherever I move, and howsoever I
turn, and wherever I gaze.
I am in the third circle, that of the rain eternal, accursed, cold, and
heavy. Its rule and quality are never new. Coarse hail, and foul water
and snow pour down through the tenebrous air; the earth that receives
them stinks. Cerberus, a beast cruel and monstrous, with three throats
barks doglike above the people that are here submerged. He has
vermilion eyes, and a greasy and black beard, and a big belly, and
hands armed with claws: he tears the spirits, flays them, and rends
them. The rain makes them howl like dogs; of one of their sides they
make a screen for the other; the profane wretches often turn
themselves.
When Cerberus, the great worm, observed us he opened his mouths, and
showed his fangs to us; not a limb had he that he kept quiet. And my
Leader opened wide his hands, took some earth, and with full fists
threw it into the ravenous gullets. As the dog that barking craves, and
becomes quiet when he bites his food, and is intent and fights only to
devour it, such became those filthy faces of the demon Cerberus, who so
thunders at the souls that they would fain be deaf.
We were passing over the shades whom the heavy rain subdues, and were
setting our feet upon their vain show that seems a body. They all of
them lay upon the ground, except one who raised himself to sit, quickly
as he saw us passing before him. “O thou who art led through this
Hell,” he said to me, “recognize me, if thou canst; thou wast made
before I was unmade.” And I to him, “The anguish which thou hast
perchance withdraws thee from my memory, so that it seems not that I
ever saw thee. But tell me who thou art, that in a place so woeful art
set, and with such a punishment, that if any other is greater none is
so displeasing.” And he to me, “Thy city which is so full of envy, that
already the sack runs over, held me in it, in the serene life. You
citizens called me Ciacco;[1] for the damnable sin of gluttony, as thou
seest, I am broken by the rain. And I, wretched soul, am not alone, for
all these endure like punishment, for like sin,” and more he said not.
I answered him, “Ciacco, thy trouble so weighs upon me, that it invites
me to weeping; but tell me, if thou canst, to what will come the
citizens of the divided city; if any one in it is just; and tell me the
reason why such great discord has assailed it.”
[1] Ciacco, in popular speech, signifies a hog.
And he to me, “After long contention they will come to blood, and the
savage party will chase out the other with great injury. Thereafter
within three suns it behoves this to fall, and the other to surmount
through the force of one who even now is tacking. It will hold high its
front long time, keeping the other under heavy burdens, however it may
lament and be shamed thereat. Two men are just, but there they are not
heeded; Pride, Envy, Avarice are the three sparks that have inflamed
their hearts.”[1]
Here he set end unto the lamentable sound.
[1] This prophecy relates to the dissensions and violence of the
parties of the Whites and the Blacks by which Florence was rent. The
“savage party” was that of the Whites, who were mainly Ghibellines. The
“one who even now is tacking” was the Pope, Boniface VIII., who was
playing fast and loose with both. Who the “two just men” were is
unknown.
And I to him, “Still I would that thou teach me, and that of more
speech thou make a gift to me. Farinata and the Tegghiaio who were so
worthy, Jacopo Rusticucci, Arrigo, and the Mosca, and the rest who set
their minds on well-doing, tell me where they are, and cause that I may
know them, for great desire constrains me to learn if Heaven sweeten
them, or Hell envenom.
And he, “They are among the blacker souls: a different sin weighs them
down to the bottom; if thou so far descendest, thou canst see them. But
when thou shalt be in the sweet world I pray thee that thou bring me to
the memory of others. More I say not to thee, and more I answer thee
not.” His straight eyes he twisted then awry, looked at me a little,
and then bent his head, and fell with it level with the other blind.
And the Leader said to me, “He wakes no more this side the sound of the
angelic trump. When the hostile Sovereign shall come, each one will
find again his dismal tomb, will take again his flesh and his shape,
will hear that which through eternity reechoes.”
Thus we passed along with slow steps through the foul mixture of the
shades and of the rain, touching a little on the future life. Wherefore
I said, “Master, these torments will they increase after the great
sentence, or will they become less, or will they be just as burning?”
And he to me, “Return to thy science, which declares that the more
perfect a thing is the more it feels the good, and so the pain. Though
this accursed people never can attain to true perfection, it expects
thereafter to be more than now.”
We took a circling course along that road, speaking far more than I
repeat; and came to the point where the descent is. Here we found
Pluto,[1] the great enemy.
[1] Pluto appears here not as Hades, the god of the lower world, but in
his character as the giver of wealth.
CANTO VII.
The Fourth Circle, that of the Avaricious and the
Prodigal.—Pluto.—Fortune.—The Styx.—The Fifth Circle, that of the
Wrathful and the Sullen.
“Pape Satan, pape Satan aleppe,”—began Pluto with his clucking voice.
And that gentle Sage, who knew everything, said to comfort me, “Let not
thy fear hurt thee; for whatso power he have shall not take from thee
the descent of this rock.” Then he turned to that swollen lip and said,
“Be silent, accursed wolf! inwardly consume thyself with thine own
rage: not without cause is this going to the abyss; it is willed on
high, there where Michael did vengeance on the proud adultery.”[1] As
sails swollen by the wind fall in a heap when the mast snaps, so fell
to earth the cruel beast.
[1] Adultery, in the sense of infidelity to God.
Thus we descended into the fourth hollow, taking more of the woeful
bank that gathers in the evil of the whole universe. Ah, Justice of
God! Who heapeth up so many new travails and penalties as I saw? And
why doth our sin so waste us? As doth the wave, yonder upon Charybdis,
which is broken on that which it encounters, so it behoves that here
the people counterdance.
Here saw I people more than elsewhere many, and from one side and the
other with great howls rolling weights by force of chest. They struck
against each other, and then just there each turned, rolling backward,
crying, “Why keepest thou?” and “Why flingest thou away?” Thus they
turned through the dark circle on either hand to the opposite point,
still crying out their opprobrious verse; then each, when he had come
through his half circle, wheeled round to the other joust.
And I, who had my heart well-nigh pierced through, said, “My Master,
now declare to me what folk is this, and if all these tonsured ones on
our left were clerks.”
And he to me, “All of these were so asquint in mind in the first life
that they made no spending there with measure. Clearly enough their
voices bay it out, when they come to the two points of the circle where
the contrary sin divides them. These were clerks who have no hairy
covering on their head, and Popes and Cardinals, in whom avarice
practices its excess.”
And I, “Master, among such as these I ought surely to recognize some
who were polluted with these evils.”
And he to me, “Vain thought thou harborest; the undiscerning life that
made them foul, to all recognition now makes them dim. Forever will
they come to the two buttings; these will rise from the sepulchre with
closed fist, and these with shorn hair. Ill-giving and ill-keeping have
taken from them the fair world, and set them to this scuffle; such as
it is, I adorn not words for it. Now canst thou, son, see the brief
jest of the goods that are committed unto Fortune, for which the human
race so scramble; for all the gold that is beneath the moon, or that
ever was, of these weary souls could not make a single one repose.”
“Master,” said I to him, “now tell me further; this Fortune, on which
thou touchest for me, what is it, that hath the goods of the world so
in its clutches?”
And he to me, “O creatures foolish, how great is that ignorance that
harms you! I would have thee now take in my judgment of her. He whose
wisdom transcendeth all made the heavens, and gave them their guides,
so that every part on every part doth shine, equally distributing the
light. In like wise for the splendors of the world, He ordained a
general ministress and guide, who should ever and anon transfer the
vain goods from race to race, and from one blood to another, beyond the
resistance of human wit. Wherefore one race rules, and the other
languishes, pursuant to her judgment, which is occult as the snake in
the grass. Your wisdom hath no withstanding of her: she provides,
judges and maintains her realm, as theirs the other gods. Her
permutations have no truce; necessity compels her to be swift, so often
cometh he who obtains a turn. This is she who is so set upon the cross,
even by those who ought to give her praise, giving her blame amiss and
ill report. But she is blessed and hears this not. With the other
Primal Creatures glad she turns her sphere, and blessed she rejoices.
But now let us descend to greater woe. Already every star sinks that
was rising when I set out, and too long stay is forbidden.”
We crossed the circle to the other bank, above a fount that boils and
pours down through a cleft that proceeds from it. The water was far
darker than perse;[1] and we, in company with the dusky waves, entered
down through a strange way. A marsh it makes, that is named Styx, this
dismal little stream, when it has descended to the foot of the malign
gray slopes. And I, who stood intent to gaze, saw muddy people in that
swamp, all naked and with look of hurt. They were smiting each other,
not only with hands, but with head, and with chest, and with feet,
mangling one another piecemeal with their teeth.
[1] Purple-black.
The good Master said, “Son, now thou seest the souls of those whom
anger overcame; and likewise I would have thee believe for certain that
beneath the water are folk who sigh, and make this water bubble at the
surface, as thine eye tells thee wherever it turns. Fixed in the slime,
they say, ‘Sullen were we in the sweet air that by the Sun is
gladdened, bearing within ourselves the sluggish fume; now we are
sullen in the black mire.’ This hymn they gurgle in their throats, for
they cannot speak with entire words.”[1]
[1] The sin here punished is that known to the Middle Ages as acedia,
or accidie,—slackness in good works, and spiritual gloom and
despondency. In the Parson’s Tale Chaucer says: “Envie and ire maken
bitternesse in heart, which bitternesse is mother of accidie.”
Thus we circled a great arc of the foul fen, between the dry bank and
the slough, with eyes turned on those who guzzle the mire. We came at
length to the foot of a tower.
CANTO VIII.
The Fifth Circle.—Phlegyas and his boat.—Passage of the Styx.—Filippo
Argenti.—The City of Dis.—The demons refuse entrance to the poets.
I say, continuing, that, long before we were at the foot of the high
tower, our eyes went upward to its top because of two flamelets that we
saw set there, and another giving signal back from so far that hardly
could the eye reach it. And I turned me to the Sea of all wisdom; I
said, “This one, what says it? and what answers that other fire? and
who are they that make it?” And he to me, “Upon the foul waves already
thou mayest discern that which is expected, if the fume of the marsh
hide it not from thee.”
Bowstring never sped arrow from itself that ran so swift a course
through the air, as a very little boat which I saw coming through the
water toward us at that instant, under the direction of a single
ferryman, who was crying out, “Art thou then come, fell soul?”
“Phlegyas, Phlegyas, this time thou criest out in vain,” said my Lord;
“longer thou shalt not have us than only while crossing the slough.” As
one who listens to some great deceit that has been practiced on him,
and then chafes at it, such became Phlegyas in his stifled anger.
My Leader descended into the bark and then he made me enter after him,
and only when I was in did it seem laden. Soon as my Leader and I were
in the boat, the antique prow goes its way, cutting more of the water
than it is wont with others.
While we were running through the dead channel, before me showed
himself one full of mud, and said, “Who art thou that comest before the
hour?” And I to him, “If I come I stay not; but thou, who art thou that
art become so foul?” He answered, “Thou seest that I am one who weeps.”
And I to him, “With weeping and with wailing, accursed spirit, do thou
remain, for I know thee although thou art all filthy.” Then he
stretched to the boat both his hands, whereat the wary Master thrust
him back, saying, “Begone there, with the other dogs!” Then with his
arms he clasped my neck, kissed my face, and said, “Disdainful soul,
blessed be she who bore thee! This one was an arrogant person in the
world; no goodness is there that adorns his memory; therefore is his
shade so furious here. How many now up there are held great kings who
shall stand here like swine in mire, leaving of themselves horrible
dispraises.” And I, “Master, I should much like to see him ducked in
this broth before we depart from the lake.” And he to me, “Ere the
shore allows thee to see it thou shalt be satisfied; it will be fitting
that thou enjoy such a desire.” After this a little I saw such rending
of him by the muddy folk that I still praise God therefor, and thank
Him for it. All cried, “At Filippo Argenti!” and the raging florentine
spirit turned upon himself with his teeth. Here we left him; so that I
tell no more of him.
But on my ears there smote a wailing, whereat forward intent I open
wide my eye. And the good Master said, “Now, son, the city draws near
that is named Dis, with its heavy citizens, with its great throng.” And
I, “Master, already in the valley therewithin I clearly discern its
mosques vermillion, as if issuing from fire.” And he said to me, “The
eternal fire that blazes within them displays them red as thou seest in
this nether Hell.”
We at last arrived within the deep ditches that encompass that
disconsolate city. The walls seemed to me to be of iron. Not without
first making a great circuit did we come to a place where the ferryman
loudly shouted to us, “Out with you, here is the entrance.”
Upon the gates I saw more than a thousand of those rained down from
heaven who angrily were saying, “Who is this, that without death goes
through the realm of the dead folk?” And my wise Master made a sign of
wishing to speak secretly with them. Then they shut in a little their
great scorn, and said, “Come thou alone, and let him be gone who so
boldly entered on this realm. Alone let him return on the mad path: let
him try if he can; for thou, who hast escorted him through so dark a
region, shalt remain here.”
Think, Reader, if I was discomforted at the sound of the accursed
words, for I did not believe ever to return hither.[1]
[1] To this world.
“O my dear Leader, who more than seven times hast renewed assurance in
me, and drawn me from deep peril that stood confronting me, leave me
not,” said I, “thus undone; and, if the going farther onward be denied
us, let us together retrace our footprints quickly.” And that Lord who
had led me thither said to me, “Fear not, for no one can take from us
our onward way, by Such an one it is given to us. But here await me,
and comfort thy dejected spirit and feed on good hope, for I will not
leave thee in the nether world.”
So the sweet Father goes away, and here abandons me, and I remain in
suspense; and yes and no contend within my head. I could not hear what
he set forth to them, but he had not staid there long with them, when
each ran vying back within. These our adversaries closed the gates on
the breast of my Lord, who remained without, and returned to me with
slow steps. He held his eyes upon the ground, and his brow was shorn of
all hardihood, and he said in sighs, “Who hath denied to me the houses
of woe?” And he said to me, “Thou, because I am wroth, be not dismayed,
for I shall win the strife, whoever circle round within for the
defence. This their insolence is not new, for of old they used it at a
less secret gate, which still is found without a bolt. Above it thou
didst see the dead inscription; and already on this side of it descends
the steep, passing without escort through the circles, One such that by
him the city shall be opened to us.”
CANTO IX.
The City of Dis.—Erichtho.—The Three Furies.—The Heavenly
Messenger.—The Sixth Circle, that of the Heresiarchs.
That color which cowardice painted outwardly on me when I saw my Guide
turn back, repressed more speedily his own new color. He stopped
attentive, like a man that listens, for the eye could not lead him far
through the black air, and through the dense fog.
“Yet it must be for us to win the fight,” began he, “unless—Such an one
offered herself to us.[1] Oh how slow it seems till Some one here
arrive!”[2]
[1] Beatrice.
[2] The messenger from Heaven, referred to in the last verses of the
last canto.
I saw well how he covered up the beginning with the rest that came
after, which were words different from the first. But nevertheless his
speech gave me fear, because I drew his broken phrase perchance to a
worse meaning than it held.
“Into this depth of the dismal shell does any one ever descend from the
first grade who has for penalty only hope cut off?”[1] This question I
put, and he answered me, “Seldom it happens that any one of us maketh
the journey on which I am going. It is true that another time I was
conjured down here by that cruel Erichtho who was wont to call back
shades into their bodies. Short while had my flesh been bare of me,
when she made me enter within that wall in order to drag out for her a
spirit from the circle of Judas. That is the lowest place, and the
darkest, and the farthest from the Heaven that encircles all. Well do I
know the road: therefore assure thyself. This marsh which breathes out
the great stench girds round about the woeful city wherein now we
cannot enter without anger.”
[1] Dante asks for assurance that Virgil, whose station is in Limbo,
“the first grade,” knows the way.
And more he said, but I hold it not in mind because my eye had wholly
attracted me toward the high tower with the ruddy summit, where in an
instant were uprisen suddenly three infernal furies, stained with
blood, who had the limbs of women and their action, and were girt with
greenest hydras. Little serpents and cerastes they had for hair,
wherewith their savage brows were bound.
And he, who well knew the handmaids of the queen of the eternal
lamentation, said to me, “Behold the fell Erinnyes; this is Megaera on
the left side, she who weeps on the right is Alecto, Tisiphone is in
the middle,” and therewith he was silent.
With her nails each was tearing her breast, they beat themselves with
their hands, and cried out so loud that I pressed close to the Poet
through dread. “Let Medusa come, so we will make him of stone,” they
all said, looking down. “Ill was it we avenged not on Theseus his
assault.”
“Turn thy back, and keep thy sight closed, for if the Gorgon show
herself, and thou shouldest see her, no return upward would there ever
be.” Thus said the Master, and he himself turned me, and did not so
trust to my hands that with his own he did not also blindfold me.
O ye who have sound understanding, regard the doctrine that is hidden
under the veil of the strange verses.
And already was coming across the turbid waves a tumult of a sound full
of terror at which both the shores trembled. Not otherwise it was than
of a wind, impetuous through the opposing heats, that strikes the
forest, and without any stay shatters the branches, beats down and
carries them away; forward, laden with dust, it goes superb, and makes
the wild beasts and the shepherds fly.
My eyes he loosed, and said, “Now direct the nerve of sight across the
ancient scum, there yonder where that fume is most bitter.”
As frogs before the hostile snake all scatter through the water, till
each huddles on the ground, I saw more than a thousand destroyed souls
flying thus before one, who at the ford was passing over the Styx with
dry feet. From his face he removed that thick air, waving his left hand
oft before him, and only with that trouble seemed he weary. Well I
perceived that he was sent from Heaven, and I turned me to the Master,
and he made sign that I should stand quiet and bow down unto him. Ah,
how full of disdain he seemed to me! He reached the gate and with a
little rod he opened it, for there was no withstanding.
“O outcasts from Heaven, folk despised,” began he upon the horrible
threshold, “wherefore is this overweening harbored in you? Why do ye
kick against that will from which its end can never be cut short, and
which many a time hath increased your grief? What avails it to butt
against the fates? Your Cerberus, if ye remember well, still bears his
chin and his throat peeled for that.” Then he turned back upon the
filthy road and said no word to us, but wore the semblance of a man
whom other care constrains and stings, than that of him who is before
him.
And we moved our feet toward the city, confident after his holy words.
Within we entered without any strife, and I, who had desire to observe
the condition which such a stronghold locks in, when I was within, sent
my eyes round about; and I see on every hand a great plain full of woe
and of cruel torment.
As at Arles, where the Rhone stagnates, as at Pola, near the Quarnaro
that shuts in Italy and bathes its borders, sepulchres make all the
place uneven; so did they here on every side, saving that the manner
was more bitter here; for among the tombs flames were scattered, by
which they were so intensely kindled that no art requires iron more so.
All their lids were lifted; and such dire laments were issuing forth
from them as truly seemed of wretches and of sufferers.
And I, “Master, who are these folk that, buried within those coffers,
make themselves heard with their woeful sighs?” And he to me, “Here are
the heresiarchs with their followers of every sect, and the tombs are
much more laden than thou thinkest. Like with like is buried here, and
the monuments are more and less hot.”
And when he to the right hand had turned, we passed between the
torments and the high battlements.
CANTO X.
The Sixth Circle: Heresiarchs.—Farinata degli Uberti.—Cavalcante
Cavalcanti.—Frederick II.
Now along a narrow path between the wall of the city and the torments
my Master goeth on, and I behind his shoulders.
“O Virtue supreme,” I began, “that through the impious circles turnest
me, according to thy pleasure, speak to me and satisfy my desires. The
folk that are lying in the sepulchres, can they be seen? All the lids
are now lifted, and no one keepeth guard.” And he to me, “All shall be
locked in when from Jehoshaphat they shall here return with the bodies
which they have left on earth. Upon this side Epicurus with all his
followers, who make the soul mortal with the body, have their burial
place. Therefore as to the demand that thou makest of me, thou shalt
soon be satisfied here within; and also as to the desire concerning
which thou art silent to me.” And I, “Good Leader, I hold not my heart
hidden from thee except in order to speak little; and not only now to
that hast thou disposed me.”
“O Tuscan, who through the city of fire alive art going, speaking thus
modestly, may it please thee to stop in this place. Thy speech makes
manifest that thou art native of that noble fatherland to which
perchance I was too molestful.” Suddenly this sound issued from one of
the coffers, wherefore I drew, in fear, a little nearer to my Leader.
And he said to me, “Turn, what dost thou? Behold Farinata who hath
uprisen; thou shalt see him all from the girdle up.”
I had already fixed my face on his, and he straightened himself up with
breast and front as though he had Hell in great scorn. And the bold and
ready hands of my Leader pushed me among the sepulchres to him, saying,
“Let thy words be choice.”
When I was at the foot of his tomb, he looked at me a little, and then,
as though disdainful, asked me, “Who were thy ancestors?” I, who was
desirous to obey, concealed them not, but disclosed them all to him;
whereon he raised his brows a little up, then said, “Fiercely were they
adverse to me, and to my fathers, and to my party, so that twice I
scattered them.” [1] “If they were driven out, they returned from every
side,” replied I to him, “both one and the other time, but yours have
not learned well that art.”
[1] Dante’s ancestors were Guelphs.
Then there arose, to view uncovered down to the chin, a shade at the
side of this one; I think that it had risen on its knees. Round about
me it looked, as if it had desire to see if another were with me, but
when its expectancy was quite extinct, weeping it said, “If through
this blind dungeon thou goest through loftiness of genius, my son,
where is he? and why is he not with thee?” And I to him, “Of myself I
come not; he who waits yonder leads me through here, whom perchance
your Guido held in scorn.”[1]
[1] Guido Cavalcanti was charged with the same sin of unbelief as his
father. Dante regards this as a sin specially contrary to right reason,
typified by Virgil.
His words and the mode of the punishment had already read to me the
name of this one, wherefore my answer was so full.
Suddenly straightening up, he cried, “How didst thou say, ‘he held’?
lives he not still? doth not the sweet light strike his eyes?” When he
took note of some delay that I made before answering, he fell again
supine, and forth appeared no more.
But that other magnanimous one, at whose instance I had stayed, changed
not aspect, nor moved his neck, nor bent his side. “And if,” he said,
continuing his first words, “they have ill learned that art, it
torments me more than this bed. But the face of the lady who ruleth
here will not be rekindled fifty times ere thou shalt know how much
that art weighs. And, so mayest thou return unto the sweet world, tell
me wherefore is that people so pitiless against my race in its every
law?” Then I to him, “The rout and the great carnage that colored the
Arbia red cause such orison to be made in our temple.” After he had,
sighing, shaken his head, “In that I was not alone,” he said, “nor
surely without cause would I have moved with the rest; but I was
alone,—there[1] where it was agreed by every one to lay Florence
waste,—he who defended her with open face.” “Ah! so hereafter may your
seed repose,” I prayed to him, “loose for me that knot, which here has
entangled my judgment. It seems, if I rightly hear, that ye foresee
that which time is bringing with him, and as to the present have
another way.” “We see,” he said, “like those who have feeble light, the
things that are far from us, so much still shineth on us the supreme
Leader; when they draw near, or are, our intelligence is all vain, and,
if some one report not to us, we know nothing of your human state.
Therefore thou canst comprehend that our knowledge will be utterly dead
from that moment when the gate of the future shall he closed.” Then, as
compunctious for my fault I said, “Now wilt thou therefore tell that
fallen one that his son is still conjoined with the living, and if just
now I was dumb to answer, make him know that I was so because I was
still thinking in that error which you have solved for me.”[2]
[1] At Empoli, in 1260, after the defeat of the Florentine Guelphs at
Montaperti on the Arbia.
[2] Guido Cavalcanti died in August, 1300; his death, being near at
hand at the time of Dante’s journey, was not known to his father.
And now my Master was calling me back, wherefore I prayed the spirit
more hastily that he would tell me who was with him. He said to me,
“Here with more than a thousand do I lie; here within is the second
Frederick and the Cardinal,[1] and of the others I am silent.”
[1] Ottaviano degli Ubaldini, a fierce Ghibelline, who was reported as
saying, “If there be a soul I have lost it for the Ghibellines.”
Thereon he hid himself; and I toward the ancient Poet turned my steps,
reflecting on that speech which seemed hostile to me. He moved on, and
then, thus going, he said to me, “Why art thou so distraught?” And I
satisfied his demand. “Let thy memory preserve that which thou hast
heard against thyself,” commanded me that Sage, “and now attend to
this,” and he raised his finger. “When thou shalt be in presence of the
sweet radiance of her whose beautiful eye sees everything, from her
thou shalt learn the journey of thy life.” Then to the left he turned
his step.
We left the wall, and went toward the middle by a path which strikes
into a valley that even up there its stench made displeasing.
CANTO XI.
The Sixth Circle: Heretics.—Tomb of Pope Anastasins.—Discourse of
Virgil on the divisions of the lower Hell.
Upon the edge of a high bank formed by great rocks broken in a circle,
we came above a more cruel pen. And here, because of the horrible
excess of the stench that the deep abyss throws out, we drew aside
behind the lid of a great tomb, whereon I saw an inscription which
said, “Pope Anastasius I hold, he whom Photinus drew from the right
way.”
“Our descent must needs be slow so that the sense may first accustom
itself a little to the dismal blast, and then will be no heed of it.”
Thus the Master, and I said to him, “Some compensation do thou find
that the time pass not lost.” And be, “Behold, I am thinking of that.
My son, within these rocks,” he began to say, “are three circlets from
grade to grade like those thou leavest. All are full of accursed
spirits; but, in order that hereafter sight only may suffice thee, hear
how and wherefore they are in constraint.
“Of every malice that wins hate in heaven injury is the end, and every
such end afflicts others either by force or by fraud. But because fraud
is the peculiar sin of man, it most displeaseth God; and therefore the
fraudulent are the lower, and more woe assails them.
“The first circle[1] is wholly of the violent; but because violence can
be done to three persons, in three rounds it is divided and
constructed. Unto God, unto one’s self, unto one’s neighbor may
violence be done; I mean unto them and unto their belongings, as thou
shalt hear in plain discourse. By violence death and grievous wounds
are inflicted on one’s neighbor; and on his substance ruins, burnings,
and harmful robberies. Wherefore homicides, and every one who smites
wrongfully, devastators and freebooters, all of them the first round
torments, in various troops.
[1] The first circle below, the seventh in the order of Hell.
“Man may lay violent hands upon himself and on his goods; and,
therefore, in the second round must needs repent without avail whoever
deprives himself of your world, gambles away and squanders his
property, and laments there where he ought to be joyous.[2]
[2] Laments on earth because of violence done to what should have made
him happy.
“Violence may be done to the Deity, by denying and blaspheming Him in
heart, and despising nature and His bounty: and therefore the smallest
round seals with its signet both Sodom and Cahors, and him who
despising God speaks from his heart.
“Fraud, by which every conscience is bitten, man may practice on one
that confides in him, or on one that owns no confidence. This latter
mode seemeth to destroy only the bond of love that nature makes;
wherefore in the second circle[1] nestle hypocrisy, flatteries, and
sorcerers, falsity, robbery, and simony, panders, barrators, and such
like filth.
[1] The second circle below, the eighth in the order of Hell.
“By the other mode that love is forgotten which nature makes, and also
that which is thereafter added, whereby special confidence is created.
Hence, in the smallest circle, where is the centre of the universe, on
which Dis sits, whoso betrays is consumed forever.”
And I, “Master, full clearly doth thy discourse proceed, and full well
divides this pit, and the people that possess it; but, tell me, they of
the fat marsh, and they whom the wind drives, and they whom the rain
beats, and they who encounter with such sharp tongues, why are they not
punished within the ruddy city if God be wroth with them? and if he be
not so, why are they in such plight?”
And he said to me, “Wherefore so wanders thine understanding beyond its
wont? or thy mind, where else is it gazing? Dost thou not remember
those words with which thine Ethics treats in full of the three
dispositions that Heaven abides not; in continence, malice, and mad
bestiality, and how incontinence less offends God, and incurs less
blame?[1] If thou considerest well this doctrine, and bringest to mind
who are those that up above, outside,[2] suffer punishment, thou wilt
see clearly why from these felons they are divided, and why less wroth
the divine vengeance hammers them.”
[1] Aristotle, Ethics, vii. 1.
[2] Outside the walls of the city of Dis.
“O Sun that healest every troubled vision, thou dost content me so,
when thou explainest, that doubt, not less than knowledge, pleaseth me;
yet return a little back,” said I, “there where thou saidst that usury
offends the Divine Goodness, and loose the knot.”
“Philosophy,” he said to me, “points out to him who understands it, not
only in one part alone, how Nature takes her course from the Divine
Intellect and from its art. And if thou note thy Physics[1] well thou
wilt find after not many pages that your art follows her so far as it
can, as the disciple does the master, so that your art is as it were
grandchild of God. By means of these two, if thou bringest to mind
Genesis at its beginning, it behoves mankind to obtain their livelihood
and to thrive. But because the usurer takes another course, he despises
Nature in herself, and in her follower, since upon other thing he sets
his hope. But follow me now, for to go on pleaseth me; for the Fishes
are gliding on the horizon, and the Wain lies quite over Corus,[2] and
far yonder is the way down the cliff.”
[1] Aristotle, Physics, ii. 2.
[2] The time indicated is about 4, or from 4 to 5 A.M. Corus, the name
of the north-west wind, here stands for that quarter of the heavens.
CANTO XII.
First round of the Seventh Circle; those who do violence to others;
Tyrants and Homicides.—The Minotaur.—The Centaurs.—Chiron.—Nessus.—The
River of Boiling Blood, and the Sinners in it.
The place where we came to descend the bank was rugged, and, because of
what was there besides, such that every eye would be shy of it.
As is that ruin which, on this side of Trent, struck the Adige on its
flank, either by earthquake or by failure of support,—for from the top
of the mountain whence it moved, to the plain, the cliff has so fallen
down that it might give a path to one who was above,—so was the descent
of that ravine. And on the edge of the broken chasm lay stretched out
the infamy of Crete, that was conceived in the false cow. And when he
saw us he bit himself even as one whom wrath rends inwardly. My Sage
cried out toward him, “Perchance thou believest that here is the Duke
of Athens who up in the world brought death to thee? Get thee gone,
beast, for this one comes not instructed by thy sister, but he goes to
behold your punishments.”
As a bull that breaks away at the instant he has now received his
mortal stroke, and cannot go, but plunges hither and thither, the
Minotaur I saw do the like.
And that wary one cried out, “Run to the pass; while he is raging it is
well that thou descend.” So we took our way down over the discharge of
those stones, which often moved under my feet because of the novel
burden.
I was going along thinking, and he said, “Thou thinkest perhaps on this
ruin which is guarded by that bestial with which I just now quenched.
Now would I have thee know that the other time when I descended hither
into the nether hell, this cliff had not yet fallen. But in truth, if I
discern clearly, a little ere He came, who levied the great spoil on
Dis from the supernal circle, in all its parts the deep foul valley
trembled so that I thought the universe had felt the love by which, as
some believe, oft times the world has been converted into chaos:[1]
and, at that moment, this ancient cliff here and elsewhere made this
downfall. But fix thine eyes below, for the river of blood is near, in
which boils whoso doth harm to others by violence.”
[1] Empedocles taught, as Dante may have learned from Aristotle, that
Love and Hate were the forces by which the elements of which the world
is composed were united and dissociated. The effort of Love was to draw
all things into a simple perfect sphere, by which the common order of
the world would be brought to chaos.
Oh blind cupidity, both guilty and mad, that so spurs us in the brief
life, and then, in the eternal, steeps us so ill!
I saw a broad ditch, bent in an arc, like one that embraces all the
plain; according as my Guide had said. And between the foot of the bank
and it, in a file were running Centaurs armed with arrows, as they were
wont in the world to go to the chase. Seeing us descending, all
stopped, and from the troop three detached themselves, with bows and
arrows first selected. And one shouted from afar, “To what torment are
ye coming, ye who descend the slope? Tell it from there; if not, I draw
the bow.” My Master said, “We will make answer unto Chiron near you
there: ill was it that thy will was ever thus hasty.”