Dante's The Divine Comedy - The Inferno

FIRST ANCHOR BOOKS EDITION, JANUARY 2002

Copyright © 2000 by Robert Hollander and Jean Hollander

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Anchor Books, a

division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally

published in hardcover in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, in 2000.

Anchor Books and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

The Library of Congress has cataloged the Doubleday edition as follows:

Dante Aligheri, 1265–1321 [Inferno. English]

The Inferno / Dante Aligheri; translated by Robert Hollander and Jean Hollander; introduction & notes by Robert Hollander.

p.  cm. ISBN 0-385-49697-4

Includes bibliographical references and index. I. Hollander, Robert. II. Hollander, Jean. III. Title.

PQ4315.2 .H65 2000 851’.1—dc21 00-034531

eISBN: 978-0-345-80310-8

Author photograph of Robert Hollander by Pryde Brown Cover painting: Hell and Fall of the Damned by Hieronymus Bosch

© Scala/Art Resource, NY Cover design by Mark Melnick

Book design by Pei Loi Koay Map design by Je�rey L. Ward

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Contents

Cover Title Page Copyright Dedication Note on Using This eBook Note on the Translation Table of Abbreviations and List of Commentators Map of Dante’s Hell Introduction

The Inferno: English INFERNO I INFERNO II INFERNO III INFERNO IV INFERNO V INFERNO VI INFERNO VII INFERNO VIII INFERNO IX INFERNO X INFERNO XI INFERNO XII INFERNO XIII INFERNO XIV INFERNO XV INFERNO XVI INFERNO XVII INFERNO XVIII INFERNO XIX INFERNO XX

INFERNO XXI INFERNO XXII INFERNO XXIII INFERNO XXIV INFERNO XXV INFERNO XXVI INFERNO XXVII INFERNO XXVIII INFERNO XXIX INFERNO XXX INFERNO XXXI INFERNO XXXII INFERNO XXXIII INFERNO XXXIV

The Inferno: Italian INFERNO I INFERNO II INFERNO III INFERNO IV INFERNO V INFERNO VI INFERNO VII INFERNO VIII INFERNO IX INFERNO X INFERNO XI INFERNO XII INFERNO XIII INFERNO XIV INFERNO XV INFERNO XVI INFERNO XVII INFERNO XVIII INFERNO XIX

INFERNO XX INFERNO XXI INFERNO XXII INFERNO XXIII INFERNO XXIV INFERNO XXV INFERNO XXVI INFERNO XXVII INFERNO XXVIII INFERNO XXIX INFERNO XXX INFERNO XXXI INFERNO XXXII INFERNO XXXIII INFERNO XXXIV

Notes Index of Names and Places Index of Subjects Treated in the Notes List of Works Cited About the Translators Other Books by Robert and Jean Hollander Acclaim for This Book

A Note on Using This eBook

In this eBook edition of The Inferno, you will �nd two types of hyperlinks.

The �rst type is embedded in the line numbers to the left of the text: these links allow you to click back and forth between the English translation and the original Italian text while still holding your place.

The second type of link, which is indicated by an arrow (→) at the end of a line of poetry, will bring you to an explanatory note.

You can click on an arrow to navigate to the appropriate note; you can then use the links at the end of each note to return to your location in either the English translation or the original Italian text. You can also click on the note number to return to your location in the English translation.

NOTE ON THE TRANSLATION

“Reader, this is an honest book.” Montaigne says this of his Essays. We would like to say the same of this translation. We have tried to bring Dante into our English without being led into the temptation of making the translation sound better than the original allows. The result may be judged by all who know him in his own idiom. This is not Dante, but an approximation of what he might authorize had he been looking over our shoulders, listening to our at times ferocious arguments. We could go on improving this e�ort as long as we live. We hope that as much as we have accomplished will �nd an understanding ear and heart among those who know the real thing. Every translation begins and ends in failure. To the degree that we have been able to preserve some of the beauty and power of the original, we have failed the less.

The accuracy of the translation from the Italian text established by Giorgio Petrocchi (1966–67) has been primarily my responsibility, its sound as English verse primarily that of the poet Jean Hollander, my wife and collaborator. As will be clear from various notes in the text, I am not always in accord with Petrocchi’s readings; however, I thought it imperative to use as the base of this entire project the current standard Italian text of the work, indicating my occasional desire to diverge from it only in its margins. My original intention was to reproduce the John D. Sinclair translation (1939) of Inferno, cleaning up its just barely post-Victorian “thee”s and “thou”s and other such, to a twenty-�rst- century ear, outdated usages. However, (a) di�erences between the Italian in the Società Dantesca Italiana (1921) edition, from which Sinclair translated, and Petrocchi’s edition, (b) later “corrections” of Sinclair’s version by a later translator, Charles Singleton, (c) further study of Dante’s lines themselves, (d) a sense of ways in which a

prose translation eventually fails to be “sayable”—all of these considerations led us to attempt a new verse translation of the �rst cantica, despite our original debt to Sinclair.

Those who come to our text familiar with the Singleton translation (1970) will perhaps think that it is its resonance that they occasionally hear; this is because a tremendous amount of Singleton’s translation conforms word-for-word to Sinclair’s, as anyone may see simply by opening the two volumes side by side. Thus, having decided to begin with Sinclair and to modify him, we found that Singleton had apparently done essentially the same thing. To his credit, his changes are usually for the better; to his blame is his failure to acknowledge the frequency of his exact coincidence with Sinclair. And thus, on his own advice, we have considered it “a mistake  …  not to let the e�orts of one’s predecessors contribute to one’s own” (page 372), and have on occasion included his divergences from Sinclair when we found them just. However, let there be no mistake: the reason our translation seems to re�ect Singleton’s, to the extent that it does, is that ours, on occasion, and Singleton’s, almost always, are both deeply indebted to Sinclair.

In February 1997, when my wife and I decided to commit ourselves to this e�ort, we were able to consult the draft of a verse translation of Inferno composed by Patrick Creagh and me (begun in 1984 and abandoned in 1988, with some 80 percent of the work Englished). Some of its phrases have found their way to our text, and we owe a considerable debt to Patrick Creagh (and to my earlier self), which we are glad to acknowledge. We also owe a debt to the prose paraphrases of di�cult Italian passages found in the still helpful English commentary by the Rev. Dr. H. F. Tozer (1901); and to glosses gleaned from various Italian commentaries (most particularly, in the early cantos, those of Francesco Mazzoni [1965– 85], but also to the interpretive paraphrases found in the Bosco/Reggio commentary [1979]). We decided early on that we would not consult contemporary verse translations until after we had �nished our work, so as to keep other voices out of our ears.

Several friends and colleagues have helped us in our task. Lauren Scancarelli Seem, administrative coordinator of the Princeton Dante Project, was our �rst reader, making a number of suggestions for changes. Margherita Frankel, a veteran Dantist as well as a good friend, gave us a close reading and made many valuable criticisms to which we have attended. The poet Frederick Tibbetts lent us his exacting ear and made dozens of helpful suggestions. Lino Pertile, the Dante scholar at Harvard University, also combed through our text and made a number of helpful suggestions. The paperback edition bene�tted from the eagle eye of Peter D’Epiro, who caught a number of slips that have been corrected in this printing. Our greatest debt is to Robert Fagles, who went through this translation verse by verse and made many hundreds of comments in our margins. To have had such attentive advice from the most favored translator of Homer of our day has been our extraordinary fortune and pleasure.

Our goal has been to o�er a clear translation, even of unclear passages. We have also tried to be as compact as possible—not an easy task, either. It is our hope that the reader will �nd this translation a helpful bridge to the untranslatable magni�cence of Dante’s poem.

February 1997 (Florence)–February 1998 (Tortola)

For this reprinting of the Anchor Books edition, we have made about one hundred and �fty changes in the translation, mainly a�ecting phrasing and punctuation. There are also some �ve or six changes in the notes.

November 2010 (Hopewell)

TABLE OF ABBREVIATIONS & LIST OF COMMENTATORS

1.  Dante’s works:

Conv. Convivio

Dve De vulgari eloquentia

Egl. Egloghe

Epist. Epistole

Inf. Inferno

Mon. Monarchia

Par. Paradiso

Purg. Purgatorio

Quest. Questio de aqua et terra

Rime Rime

Rime dub. Rime dubbie

VN Vita nuova

Detto Il Detto d’Amore (“attributable to Dante”)

Fiore Il Fiore (“attributable to Dante”)

2.    Commentators on the Commedia (these texts are all either currently available or, in the case of Landino, Bennassuti, and Provenzal, should one day be available, in the database known as

the Dartmouth Dante Project; dates, particularly of the early commentators, are often approximate):

Jacopo Alighieri (1322) (Inferno only) L’anonimo lombardo (1322) (Latin) (Purgatorio only)

Graziolo de’ Bambaglioli (1324) (Latin) (Inferno only) Jacopo della Lana (1324) Guido da Pisa (1327) (Latin) (Inferno only) L’Ottimo (1333) L’anonimo selmiano (1337) (Inferno only) Pietro di Dante (1340) (Latin) [also Inferno of 2nd & 3rd redactions] Il codice cassinese (1350?) (Latin) Giovanni Boccaccio (1373) (Inferno I–XVII only) Benvenuto da Imola (1380) (Latin) Francesco da Buti (1385) L’anonimo �orentino (1400) Giovanni da Serravalle (1416) (Latin) Guiniforto Barzizza (1440) (Inferno only) *Cristoforo Landino (1481) Alessandro Vellutello (1544) Bernardino Daniello (1568) Lodovico Castelvetro (1570) (Inferno I–XXIX only) Pompeo Venturi (1732) Baldassare Lombardi (1791) Luigi Portirelli (1804) Paolo Costa (1819) Gabriele Rossetti (1826–40) (Inferno & Purgatorio only) Niccolò Tommaseo (1837) Ra�aello Andreoli (1856) *Luigi Bennassuti (1864) Henry W. Longfellow (1867) (English) Gregorio Di Siena (1867) (Inferno only) Brunone Bianchi (1868) G. A. Scartazzini (1874; but the 2nd ed. of 1900 is used) Giuseppe Campi (1888) Gioachino Berthier (1892)

Giacomo Poletto (1894) H. Oelsner (1899) (English) H. F. Tozer (1901) (English) John Ruskin (1903) (English; not in fact a “commentary”) John S. Carroll (1904) (English) Francesco Torraca (1905) C. H. Grandgent (1909) (English) Enrico Mestica (1921) Casini-Barbi (1921) Carlo Steiner (1921) Isidoro Del Lungo (1926) Scartazzini-Vandelli (1929) Carlo Grabher (1934) Ernesto Trucchi (1936) *Dino Provenzal (1938) Luigi Pietrobono (1946) Attilio Momigliano (1946) Manfredi Porena (1946) Natalino Sapegno (1955) Daniele Mattalia (1960) Siro A. Chimenz (1962) Giovanni Fallani (1965) Giorgio Padoan (1967) (Inferno I–VIII only) Giuseppe Giacalone (1968) Charles Singleton (1970) (English) Bosco-Reggio (1979) Pasquini-Quaglio (1982)

*Not yet available

NB: All references to other works (e.g., Mazz.1967.1) are keyed to the List of Works Cited at the back of this volume, with the exception of references to commentaries contained in the Dartmouth Dante Project database, accessible online (telnet library.dartmouth.edu; at the prompt type: connect dante). Informational notes derived from Paget Toynbee’s Concise Dante

Dictionary of Proper Names and Notable Matters in the Works of Dante (Oxford: Clarendon, 1914) are followed by the siglum (T). References to the Enciclopedia dantesca, 6 vols. (Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana, 1970–78) are indicated by the abbreviation ED. Commentaries by Robert Hollander are (at times) shorter versions of materials found in the Princeton Dante Project, a multimedia edition of the Commedia currently including most materials relevant to Inferno (the last two cantiche are under development). Subscription (without charge to the user) is possible at www.princeton.edu/dante.

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INTRODUCTION

What is a “great book”? It is probably impossible to de�ne the concept analytically to anyone’s satisfaction, but it may be described pragmatically: a work that is loved, over time, by millions of more- or-less ordinary readers and by thousands of scholars. Dante, by the time he was writing the fourth canto of Inferno, had already decided he was writing such a book. He sets his name down as one of the six all-time great writers: only Homer, Virgil, Ovid, Horace, and Lucan have preceded him (he will later add Statius). Unspeakably self- assured as this poet may seem, many today would now shorten that list, perhaps even to two: Homer and Dante. His self-con�dence may seem overweening, but he was even more of a prophet than he realized.

In about 1306, having entered his forties, he set about work on his Comedy. By 1295 he had written a “little book” (the nomenclature is his own), The New Life, thirty-one of his lyric poems surrounded by a governing prose commentary that almost explains the eventual meaning of his love for a young woman of Florence named Beatrice, who had died in 1290 at the age of twenty-�ve. We know nothing absolutely certain about her, whether she was an actual woman (if so, probably a member of the Portinari family, and then almost certainly married) or whether she is a �ctitious lady of the sort that love-poets invented in order to have a subject to write about. The text, on the other hand, makes it clear that we are to treat her as historical, and also suggests that we are to understand that she means more than she seems, for she is ineluctably joined with the Trinity, and in particular with the life of Christ. Dante seems completely aware of the radical newness of a lady loaded with such lofty theological meaning in the tradition of vernacular poetry of love. That is, he knows that what he is proposing is out of

bounds. And this is why he is usually so very di�dent in his remarks, forcing us to draw some rather disquieting conclusions about the nature of the very special kind of love that eventually informs his praise of Beatrice.

Before he began work on his “theological epic,” the Comedy, he had also written major parts of two other works, one a presentation of his ideas about eloquence in the vernacular, De vulgari eloquentia, the second, Convivio, a lengthy study of moral philosophy (in the form of commentary to his own odes), of which he had completed four of the projected �fteen “treatises.” He had been actively involved in the often bitterly contested political life of Florence, at that time one of the most important European cities, swollen with new wealth and consequent political power. At a time when that city had only six of them, he served the customary two-month term as one of its priors, the highest political o�ce in the city. By 1302, having inherited the wrong political identity, he lost practically everything when his party, the White Guelph faction, was outfoxed by the Black Guelphs, supported by the allied forces of Pope Boniface VIII and the French king. He was exiled in 1302 and never returned home again. He then lived a mainly itinerant life in northern Italy, with two longish stays in Verona and a �nal one in Ravenna, where he died of malarial fever in September 1321 at the age of �fty-six.

The political situation of northern Italy during his lifetime was distinguished by factionalism and chaos. The emperors who were supposed to govern all of Europe had, for centuries, mainly avoided their Italian responsibilities. The last of them to rule in Italy was Frederick II (we hear of him in Inferno X and XIII), and he, while one of the greatest �gures in Europe, was not a leader to Dante’s liking. Dead in 1250, Frederick was the last emperor to govern from Italy. Dante hoped for an imperial restoration of the proper kind, and, to everyone’s amazement, including his own, had his hopes rewarded when the newly crowned Henry VII, a compromise candidate from Luxembourg, allowed to become emperor primarily because of the machinations of Pope Clement V, descended into the peninsula to rule Europe from Italy in 1310. When his military

expedition eventually failed because of his death in 1313, Dante’s imperial hopes were dealt a terrible blow, but not �nally dashed. To the end of his days (and in the text of Paradiso XXVII and XXX) he insisted on believing that a new “Augustus” would ful�ll God’s design for Italy and Europe.

On the local level, late-thirteenth-century northern Italy (Milano, to the north, and Rome, to the south, are barely on Dante’s personal political map; rather we hear, in addition to Florence, of such cities as Genoa, Pisa, Pistoia, Siena, etc.) was in constant turmoil. The two main “parties” were the Guelphs (those essentially allied with the papacy) and the Ghibellines (aligned with the emperor—when there was one to be aligned with—or at least with imperial hopes). But most politics, as they are in our own time, were local. And there, labels did not count so much as family. In Florence the Ghibellines had been defeated and banished in 1266, a year after Dante’s birth, leaving the city entirely Guelph. But that did not betoken an era of unity. The Guelphs themselves were already divided (as they were in many northern cities) in two factions, the “Blacks,” led by the Donati family (into a less powerful branch of which Dante married), and the “Whites,” led by the Cerchi. (It is probably correct to say that the Whites were more devoted to a republican notion of governance, while the Blacks were more authoritarian.) The �rst impetus toward political division had occurred early in the century, when a young man, member of a Ghibelline family, broke o� his engagement and married a Guelph Donati (in Pistoia, not entirely dissimilarly, the roots of division supposedly began in a snowball �ght). A member of a White Guelph family, and having married into the most important Black family, Dante was therefore tied to Guelph interests. How then, do we explain his patent allegiance, in the Comedy, to the imperial cause? In 1306 or so he seems to have, rereading the Latin classics, reformulated his own political vision (as is �rst evident in the fourth and �fth chapters of the last treatise of the Convivio, before which there is not a clear imperialist sentiment to be found in his writing). And so, nominally a Guelph, Dante was far more in accord with Ghibelline ideas, except that, in practice, he found Ghibellines lacking in the religious vision that he personally

saw as the foundation of any imperialist program. Politics are everywhere in the poem, which is far from being the purely religious text that some of its readers take it for.

In his exile, the Commedia (�rst called the Divina Commedia only in 1555 by a Venetian publisher) became his obsession. For about �fteen years, with few exceptions (a notable one being his treatise, Monarchia, concerning the divine prerogatives of the empire, perhaps composed in 1317), the poem absorbed almost all of his time and energy. Its “motivating idea” is a simple one, outrageously so. In the Easter period of 1300 a thirty-�ve-year-old Florentine, struggling with failure and apparently spiritual death, is rescued by the shade of the Roman poet Virgil. He, won to the project by the living soul of Beatrice, who descends to hell from her seat in heaven in order to enlist his aid, agrees to lead Dante on a journey through hell and purgatory. Beatrice herself will again descend from heaven to take Dante the rest of the way, through the nine heavenly spheres and into paradise, where angels and souls in bliss gaze, in endless rapture, on God. The entire journey takes nearly precisely one week, Thursday evening to Thursday evening. It begins in fear and trembling on this earth and ends with a joyous vision of the trinitarian God. It is perhaps di�cult to imagine how even a Dante could have managed to build so magni�cent an edi�ce out of so improbable a literary idea. The result was a book that began to be talked about, known from parts that seem to have circulated before the whole, even before it was �nished (�rst citations begin to be noted around 1315). By the time he had completed it, shortly before his death, people were eagerly awaiting the publication of Paradiso. And within months of his death (or even before) commentaries upon it began to be produced. It was, in short, an instant “great book,” probably the �rst of its kind since the last century of the pagan era, when Romans (no less of them than Augustus himself) awaited eagerly the �nished text of Virgil’s Aeneid.

One of the most striking things about the Comedy is the enormous apparatus that has attached itself to it. No secular work in the western tradition has so developed a heritage of line-by-line commentary, one that began in Latin and Italian and that has now

entered any number of languages, European, Slavic, and Asian. It is clear that Dante’s work convinced the scholars of his time that this was a poem worthy of the most serious attention, both as a purveyor of the most important ideas of Christianity (e.g., sin, grace, redemption, transcendence) and as a response to the greatest of the Latin poets (Virgil foremost, but also Ovid, Statius, Lucan, and others) and philosophers (Aristotle [in his Arabic/Latin form] and Cicero, primarily). Knowledge of Greek had essentially disappeared from the time of the establishment of Latin Christianity as the dominant religion and culture of the West in the �fth and sixth centuries. The study of the language would only gradually begin again some �fty years after Dante’s death. And thus while Dante knows about Greek philosophy, all he has experienced of it comes from the works (most of Aristotle) and bits and pieces (only one work of Plato’s, the Timaeus, and excerpts of some of the pre- Socratics) that had been translated into Latin. Strangely, for a modern reader, his �rst commentators pay little or no attention to his close and fairly extensive dealings with the poems of his vernacular predecessors and co-practitioners (Guido Guinizzelli, Arnaut Daniel, Brunetto Latini, Guido Cavalcanti, Cino da Pistoia, and others). Perhaps the most impressive aspect of these commentaries (and we are speaking of line-by-line analyses, on the model of commentary to the Bible or to a handful of especially respected classical authors, a form essentially denied to modern writers before 1300) is the vast number of them. From the �rst twenty years after Dante’s death at least ten have survived; by our own time there are hundreds.

Along with conquering the allegiance of scholars, Dante won the hearts of less-erudite Italians (or, at �rst, Tuscans) who found in his vast poem the �rst use of Italian as a literary language in an indisputably major work. Italian poetry, beginning at the time of St. Francis in the early twelfth century, had performed wonders, but it had rarely found a subject that seemed serious enough. Here was a poem that tackled everything: theology, religion, philosophy, politics, the sciences of heaven (astronomy/astrology) and of earth (biology, geology), and, perhaps most of all, the study of human

behavior. And it did all these things in a language that everyone could understand, or at least thought he could. It is probably not true to suggest that Dante “invented modern Italian.” What he did do was to deploy Italian as a literary language on a major scale, incorporating the “serious” subjects that had hitherto been reserved to Latin. If the Italian language had been waiting for a voice, Dante gave it that voice. Before him it did not exist in a global form, a complete language �t for all subjects; after him it did. It is probably not because of him that Italian has changed no more between his time and today than English has since Shakespeare’s day. It is, nonetheless, a continuing surprise and reward for contemporary Italians to have so ancient and yet so approachable a father, speaking, at least most of the time, words that they themselves use (and sometimes that he had invented).

Is Dante an “easy” poet? That depends on what passages we happen to be reading. He can be as simple and straightforward as one’s country neighbor, or as convoluted as the most arcane professor. (Boccaccio, one of his greatest advocates, also shows both proclivities in the prose of the Decameron.) Yet he has always found a welcome from the least schooled of readers, and even from those who could not read at all, but learned the poem by rote. A living Tuscan farmer/poet, Mauro Punzecchi, years ago memorized the poem while he worked his �elds and is today able to recite all of it. Who does not envy him his gift?

Each of us reads his own Commedia, which makes perfect sense, most of the time. It is only when we try to explain “our” poem to someone else that the trouble starts.

The commentary that accompanies this new translation is, like every one that has preceded it, except the �rst few, indebted to earlier discussions of this text. And what of that text, as Dante left it? No one has ever seen his autograph version. As a result, the manuscript tradition of the poem is vast and complicated. Nonetheless, and despite all the di�culties presented by particular textual problems, the result of variant readings in various manuscripts, it must be acknowledged that in the Comedy we have a remarkably stable text, given the facts that we do not possess an

autograph and that the condition of the manuscripts is so unyieldingly problematic. However, we do know that Dante left us precisely 14,233 verses arranged in one hundred cantos, all of which contained precisely the number of verses we �nd in them today in every modern edition. And that is no small thing.

And so each reader comes to a text that o�ers some problems of the textual variety; these pale beside problems of interpretation. What we can all agree on is that the work is a wonder to behold. Reading Dante is like listening to Bach. It is unimaginable to think that a human being, so many years ago (or indeed ever), could make such superhuman magic. Yet there it is, beckoning, but also refusing to yield some of its secrets.

When I considered how I might present this poem in a brief introduction, after years of thinking about it and teaching it and writing about it, I thought of what I myself missed when I started reading Dante. The �rst was a sense of Dante’s intellectual biography; the second was a set of answers to a series of questions: how does allegory work (i.e., how does this poem “mean”)? What does Virgil represent and why is he the �rst guide in the poem? How am I supposed to react to the sinners of Inferno, especially those that seem so sympathetic to me? The �rst subject is too vast for treatment here. My own attempt at an intellectual biography of the poet is available in Italian (Dante Alighieri, Rome, Editalia, 2000; an English version was published by Yale University Press in 2001). The three questions I have tried to answer, both in the “Lectures” found currently in the Princeton Dante Project, and, in shorter form, in an essay I wrote a year ago (“Dante: A Party of One,” First Things 92 [April 1999]: 30–35; the essay on Virgil also has some points in common with my article, “Virgil,” in the Dante Encyclopedia, ed. Richard Lansing, New York, Garland, 2000). What follows is another attempt to deal with three important matters facing any �rst-time reader of the poem, or any reader at all.

(1)  Allegory. When I was young I was taught that Dante’s poem was the very essence of allegorical writing. What exactly is allegory? Simply put,

it is the interpretive strategy of understanding one thing as meaning not itself but something other. A lady, blindfolded, holding a pair of scales in one hand, is not to be understood as a being with a particular history, but as a timeless entity, an abstraction: justice. If we understand just this much, we are prepared to comprehend how we might read—and how many of his �rst readers did understand— Dante’s poem as an “allegory.” Virgil is not the Roman poet so much as he is human reason unenlightened by faith; when he acts or speaks in the poem he does so without the historical context supplied by his life or works. And what of the second guide in the poem, Beatrice? She, too, is removed from her historical role in Dante’s life, and is treated as an abstraction, in her case the truths discovered through faith, or perhaps revelation, or theology. And what of the protagonist, Dante himself? That he has a very personal history, of which we hear a good deal, matters not. He is a sort of “Everyman,” and represents the ordinarily appetitive human soul. Please let me explain that I myself think very little of such formulations, but they are found in almost all the early commentators. In a term derived from Cicero, these interpreters thought of allegory as a “continuous metaphor.” The most signi�cant actions performed in the poem, they thought, could best be understood as part of this single, developing metaphor, in which the �awed human soul called “Dante” is gradually educated, �rst by reason (referred to as “Virgil”), and then by theological certainty (code name “Beatrice”).

Since something like this does seem to occur in the course of the poem, we can sense why the formulation has its appeal. The problem is that it shortchanges the entire historical referentiality of the poem. Dante’s life disappears as a subject worthy of attention; Virgil’s texts need not be read or understood as ways to �nd out what the poem means when it refers to them; Beatrice’s earthly existence as a young woman becomes utterly super�uous, as does her “relationship” (a curiously and precisely wrong word, given its contemporary usage) with Dante. Fourteen centuries ago Isidore of Seville de�ned allegory as “otherspeech,” in which a speaker or writer said one thing but meant something else by it. Without

exploring the limitations that he himself imposed upon that formula, we can merely note that it is frequently used in modern days to explain allegory simply and quickly. If I say “Beatrice” I do not mean her, but what she means. We are back to the lady holding the scales. To use a medieval example, St. Thomas explains (Summa I.i.9) that when the Bible refers to the arm of God (Isaiah 51:9) it does not mean that God has an arm, but that He has operative power. That is, we can discard the literal for its signi�cance, or, in more modern terms, the signi�er for the signi�ed. Does this way of reading Dante utterly denature the text we have before us? Perhaps not utterly, but enough so that we should avoid it as much as we can.

The matter gets more interesting and more complicated because Dante himself wrote about the question of allegory. In his Convivio he distinguishes between allegory as it is understood and practiced by poets (along the lines we have been discussing) and as it is used by theologians in order to understand certain passages in the Bible (a very di�erent procedure that we will examine in a moment). And in Convivio (II.i) he says the “correct” thing: it is his intention, in the explication of his odes, to follow the allegorical procedures of the poets (“since it is my intention here to follow the method of the poets, I shall take the allegorical sense according to the usage of the poets”). There are those who put this remark to the service of the claim that the “allegory of the theologians” thus has nothing to do with Dante’s procedures in the Comedy, either. However, that is exactly what he claims in the letter he wrote to his patron, Cangrande della Scala of Verona. The authenticity of his Epistle to Cangrande, written sometime after Dante had begun writing the Paradiso, and thus probably no earlier than 1316, is one of the most debated of Dantean questions. It is di�cult for this writer to be fair to the negative argument, which is so obviously based in a desire to cancel what the epistle says. Whether or not Dante wrote it (and current scholarly opinion is, once again, decidedly in favor), this remarkable document puts forward the disturbing (to use a mild word) idea that Dante’s poem was written with the same keys to meaning as was the Bible. No one had ever said as much about his

own work before, and it must be made clear that it is anathema to any sensible person of Dante’s (or any) time. If this were the only occasion on which this most venturesome of writers had said something outrageous, one might want to pay more heed to those who try to remove the text from his canon on the ground that he had no business making such a claim.

The principal tenet of theological allegory is that it holds certain (but not all) historical events in the Bible as a privileged and limited class of texts. Some historical passages in the Bible possessed four senses. The four senses of the Bible are generally put forth, and especially in the wake of Thomas Aquinas (Summa theologiae I.i.10), as follows: (1) historical/literal, (2) allegorical, (3) moral or tropological, (4) anagogical. It is helpful to understand that these senses unfurl in a historical continuum. For instance, the historical Moses, leading the Israelites out of captivity, gains his allegorical meaning in Christ, leading humankind out of bondage to the freedom of salvation. His moral (or tropological—these words are used synonymously) sense is present now—whenever “now” occurs —in the soul of the believer who chooses to make his or her “exodus” from sin; while the anagogical sense is found only after the end of time, when those who are saved are understood as having arrived in the New Jerusalem, eternal joy in heaven. To o�er a second example, one favored by Dante’s early commentators: Jerusalem was the historical city of Old Testament time; it points to the allegorical Jerusalem in which Jesus was cruci�ed; it is the moral or tropological “city” (whether within a single believer or as the entity formed by the Church Militant now) at any present moment; it is, anagogically, the New Jerusalem, which will exist only at the end of time. As opposed to the literal sense of poet’s allegory, the literal sense of theological allegory is historically true, found only in events narrated in the Bible (e.g., the fall of Adam and Eve, Moses leading the Israelites in the Exodus, the birth of Jesus, the Cruci�xion). According to the Epistle to Cangrande and, more importantly, as found in the treatment of subjects in his poem itself (most of which was written before he wrote the epistle, it is important to remember), Dante has adapted the techniques of

theological allegory to the making of his poem. Characters and events in it are portrayed in a historical mode and as part of a historical continuum. Adam, Moses, Icarus, Aeneas, Paul, Augustus, Virgil, and Dante are all portrayed as having said things or accomplished deeds that are seen in a historical and meaningful pattern that gives shape to this poem. Their actual historical status does not matter. Dante surely did not believe that Icarus had enjoyed a life on earth beyond that conferred by poets and mythographers. But he treats him, in Inferno XVII, as a possible precursor to himself, should Dante, a latter-day �yer through space, have had a bad end and fallen from the back of Geryon.

If we have been able to rid ourselves of the interpretive problems engendered by the “allegory of the poets,” here we have a still larger problem. How can Dante have written the Comedy in the same way that God wrote the Bible through his inspired human agents? Obviously he could not have. Then why does he make so outrageous a claim? Because what he is most concerned with is establishing the “right” of poetry to truth. This is a complex argument, and needs to be undertaken with a sense of the standing of poetry in a theological age. Let us say that it was not propitious. St. Thomas Aquinas had been clear about the issue. Poetry was the least of the human sciences, was basically devoid of cognitive value, and its practitioners were liars. In an intellectual climate of that kind, Dante was forced into making a choice. Either he did what all others who defended poetry had done (and as he himself had done in Convivio), admit that poets are literally liars who nonetheless tell moral and philosophical truths through (poets’) allegory, or he had to �nd a new answer to the attacks on poetry by friars like Thomas. Typically, he went his own way. If religious detractors of poetry say it lacks truth, he will give them truth. The Comedy is presented, from end to end (no reader can possibly miss this fact), as a record of an actual experience. Let us be honest with one another. You do not believe, and I do not believe, that Dante took a seven-day trip to the otherworld. But we can agree that his claims for total veracity are in the poem. Why? Because Dante took Thomas seriously. It is a wonderful game that he plays, daring and at times very funny, and

surely he enjoyed playing it. Let me o�er a single example, drawn from a pretty “serious” setting, the Earthly Paradise. Describing the six wings adorning each of the four biblical beasts that represent the authors of the Gospels in Purgatorio XXIX, Dante assures us that their wings were six in number (Ezechiel’s cherubic creatures had only four), that is, as many as are found in John’s description of the same cherubs (Revelation 4:8). The text puts this in an arresting way: “John sides with me, departing from him [Ezechiel].” No one but Dante would have said this in this way. “Here I follow John” would have been the proper way for a poet to guarantee the truthfulness of his narrative. Not for Dante. Since the pretext of the poem is that he indeed saw all that he recounts as having seen, his own experience, in completely Thomistic spirit, comes �rst—he knows this by his senses. And so John is his witness, and not he John’s.

The whole question of exactly how and how much the “allegory of the theologians” permeates the Comedy is not to be rehashed here. It is the subject of a number of books, including two by this writer. It is important to grasp that, by breaking out of the lockstep of other poets, who give us narratives that are utterly and only fabulous, i.e., patently untrue in their literal sense, Dante wanted to take poetry somewhere new. The greatest French medieval poem, the Romance of the Rose, is built around the presentation of a series of abstractions speaking to one another in a garden. Marianne Moore, borrowing from another writer, once referred to poems as “imaginary gardens with real toads in them.” The Romance of the Rose is an imaginary garden �lled with imaginary toads; the Comedy presents itself as a real garden containing real toads. If the student (or teacher) who is wrestling with this di�cult matter for the �rst time takes only this much away from this discussion, it should be of considerable aid. The reader is not asked by the poem to see Virgil as Reason, Beatrice as Faith (or Theology or Revelation), Francesca as Lust, Farinata as Heresy, etc. We may banish such abstractions from mind, unless Dante himself insists on them. On occasion he does—e.g., the Lady Poverty, beloved of St. Francis [Paradiso XI.74], who is not to be confused with any historical earthly woman, but is

to be regarded as the ideal of Christ’s and the Apostles’ renunciation of the things of this world. It is a useful and pleasing freedom that, in consequence, we may enjoy: “The allegory of the Comedy is not allegory as the commentators urge me to apply it. I may read this poem as history, and understand it better.” That, at least provisionally, is a good way to begin reading this poem.

(2)  Virgil. We should be aware that Virgil was not always Dante’s guide in poetry. The Vita nuova is essentially without major reference to him; De vulgari and the �rst three treatises of Convivio are similar in this respect. It is only in the fourth and last treatise of the latter that we can begin to see how the Comedy could make Virgil so essential a presence, for there Virgil’s texts are present in important ways, as Dante begins to think of moral philosophy, Roman polity, and the jettisoning of allegorical procedures in the same breath. As the world of political reality, of human choices made in time and with real consequence, for the �rst time becomes a stage for Dante’s thought, Virgil becomes his most important resource. As is widely understood, Dante’s recovery of Virgilian text is the most noteworthy example of this phenomenon that we �nd in the Middle Ages. We have not yet entered the world of the Renaissance, but we are getting close.

There are few surprises awaiting the reader of the Comedy as unsettling as to �nd a pagan poet serving as guide in a Christian poem. We have perhaps gotten so used to the idea of Dante’s Virgil that we forget to be surprised by it. For reasons that we �nd it di�cult to fathom, Dante needed Virgil in order to make this poem; and he wanted him to serve as a central character in it. Lesser minds would have made a less provocative choice: an anonymous friar, a learned Christian theologian, anyone less troubling than Virgil. One tradition of Christian reception of Virgil, which is at least as old as the emperor Constantine, held that his much-discussed fourth Eclogue actually foretold the coming of Christ. Had Dante so believed, his choice of guide might have been less burdensome. However, we may be certain from Monarchia (I.xi.1) that Dante

knew that Virgil’s “virgin” was not the blessèd Mary but Astraea, or “justice.” Any number of passages within the Comedy make it plain that Dante did not consider the Roman poet a Christian avant-la- lettre. We must conclude that he willfully chose a pagan as his guide, leaving us to fathom his reasons for doing so.

In recent years a growing number of Dante’s interpreters have been arguing for the view that Dante deliberately undercuts the Latin poet, showing that both in some of his decisions as guide and in some of his own actual texts he is, from Dante’s later and Christian vantage point, prone to error. If this is the case, we must not forget that Dante at the same time is intent upon glorifying Virgil. And then we might consider the proposition that Dante’s love for him, genuine and heartfelt, needed to be held at arm’s length and chastised, perhaps revealing to a pagan-hating reader that Dante knew full well the limitations of his Virgil. Yet he could not do without him. Virgil is the guide in Dante’s poem because he served in that role in Dante’s life. It was Virgil’s Aeneid and not the works of Aristotle or of Aquinas which served as model for the poem; it was Virgil who, more than any other author, helped to make Dante Dante.

It may take readers years of rereading before they discover an extraordinary fact about Dante’s Virgil. For all the excitement, even exhilaration, brought forth by Virgil’s mere presence in this poem (a text that would seem to need to exclude him on theological grounds), sooner or later the fact that he is treated, on occasion, rather shabbily begins to impress us. This is so obvious, once it is pointed out, that one can begin to understand how thoroughly trained we have all been to look with pleased eyes upon a Dantean love for Virgil that heralds Renaissance humanism. To take only a few examples from the goodly supply presented in the text of Inferno (and Purgatorio will add many another), we witness Virgil embarrassed by the recalcitrant fallen angels who deny him entrance to the City of Dis (Inf. VIII and IX); later teased by his pupil for that momentary failure (XIV); being careful to get Dante out of observing distance lest Geryon prove as di�cult as the rebel angels had been and thus embarrass him again (XVI); completely fooled by

the demons of the pitch, who cause him acute discomfort over three cantos (XXI–XXIII). If such scenes make it seem more than unlikely that Virgil could possibly represent Reason (and commentators who think so grow silent at the margins of these scenes, only occasionally being honest enough even to say, “here the allegory is intermittent”), they also make us wonder about Dante’s motives in treating his “master and author” so disrespectfully. It is perhaps only because he loved Virgil so deeply that he feels the need to remind himself and his reader that the pagan was, in the end, a failure, capable of causing another Roman poet, Statius, to convert to Christianity, but not of taking that step himself. All of that seems wrong to us. There is perhaps no doctrine in the entire Comedy so hateful to modern readers as that which makes pagans—and others outside the Christian dispensation—responsible for knowing Christ. When we consider Dante’s situation, however, his motives may seem more understandable to us. Having fought o� the temptation to make Virgil a Christian, Dante must now show himself and his reader that he has not gone overboard in his a�ections.

There is another disturbing element to Dante’s Virgilianism. Not only is Virgil the character forced to undergo some seriously humiliating moments, but his texts are also on the receiving end of Dante’s playful mockery. Perhaps the most evident moment of this occurs in the twentieth canto, where Virgil is made to revise an episode in the tenth book of the Aeneid so that it accords better with Christian ideas about divination. It is a richly woven scene, and is extremely funny (Dante is a much funnier poet than we like to acknowledge), once we begin to understand the literary game that is being played under our eyes. And this is not the only time that Virgil’s texts receive such treatment. We will even �nd the Aeneid remembered in the very last canto of Paradiso, with its reminder of what the Sibyl told of Christian truth to an ear that could understand her utterance—if not Virgil’s.

It is simply impossible to imagine the Comedy without Virgil. And no one before Dante, and perhaps very few after, ever loved Virgil as he did. At the same time there is a hard-edged sense of Virgil’s crucial failure as poet of Rome, the city Dante celebrates for its two

suns, church and empire, but which Virgil saw only in the light of the one. For Dante, that is his great failure. As unfair as it seems to us, so much so that we frequently fail to note how often Virgil is criticized by the later poet who so loved him, it is the price that Dante forces him to pay when he enters this Christian precinct. And it may have been the price that he exerted from himself, lest he seem too available to the beautiful voices from the pagan past, seem less �rm as the poet of both Romes. The Virgilian voice of the poem is the voice that brings us, more often and more touchingly than any other, the sense of tragedy that lies beneath the text of the Comedy.

(3)  The Moral Situation of the Reader. How are we meant to respond to the sinners in hell? That seems an easy question to resolve. In the Inferno we see the justice of God proclaimed in the inscription over the gate of hell (III.4): “Justice moved my maker on high.” If God is just, it follows logically that there can be no question concerning the justness of His judgments. All who are condemned to hell are justly condemned. Thus, when we observe that the protagonist feels pity for some of the damned, we are probably meant to realize that he is at fault for doing so. Dante, not without risk, decided to entrust to us, his readers, the responsibility for seizing upon the details in the narratives told by sinners, no matter how appealing their words might be, in order to condemn them on the evidence that issues from their own mouths. It was indeed, as we can see from the many readers who fail to take note of this evidence, a perilous decision for him to have made. Yet we are given at least two clear indicators of the attitude that should be ours. Twice in Inferno �gures from heaven descend to hell to further God’s purpose in sending Dante on his mission. Virgil relates the coming of Beatrice to Limbo. She tells him, in no uncertain terms, that she feels nothing for the tribulations of the damned and cannot be harmed in any way by them or by the destructive agents of the place that contains them (Inf. II.88-93). All she longs to do is to return to her seat in Paradise (Inf. II.71). And when the angelic intercessor arrives to open the gates of Dis, slammed shut against Virgil, we are told that this benign presence has absolutely no

interest in the situation of the damned or even of the living Dante. All he desires is to complete his mission and be done with such things (Inf. IX.88; 100-103), reminding us of Beatrice’s similar lack of interest in the damned.

The complex mechanism that Dante has developed to establish what we today, after Henry James, call “point of view” has perhaps not been examined as closely as it should be. If we consider it, we realize how “modern” it is. The essential staging of any scene in Inferno involving a confrontation with a sinner potentially contains some or all of the following voices: (1) the all-knowing narrator, who has been through the known universe (and beyond!) and knows and understands everything a mortal being can understand; (2) Virgil, the wise guide who understands (most of the time) all that an extremely intelligent pagan can understand (which is considerable, if at some times more limited than at others); (3) the gradually more-and-more-informed protagonist, who moves from alarming cowardice and ignorance to relatively sound moral competence and judgment before the Inferno ends; (4) a sinner (sometimes more than one) who may or may not be trying to tell his or her story in a distorted, self-serving way, seeking a better reputation, whether in Dante’s eyes or in the view of posterity. That is a brief morphology of the possible combination of speakers in any given scene. We all should be able to agree that such an arrangement is, if nothing else, complex. If the only speaker were Dante the narrator, we would always know where he (and we) stood. When we re�ect that he hardly ever intervenes with moral glosses within scenes, we learn something important about this poem: it will not do our work for us. Most of the speakers are, thus, at best usually reliable, at worst completely unreliable. The gradations of their quali�cations may change with every scene. And we are left with the problem of evaluating the result. Let us examine only a single scene to see how this grid of potential understanding functions.

In one of the most celebrated passages in all of literature, Francesca da Rimini tells the protagonist her story (Inf. V.72–142). As is usual, the omniscient narrator tells us nothing but the facts. From him we learn that the protagonist was overcome by pity (72—

is this a good or bad thing?); that the sinners look like doves (82–84 —what is the “iconography” of these doves, birds of Venus or signs of the Holy Spirit [the two most usual medieval associations for these birds]?); that Francesca and Paolo come from a line of sinners that includes Dido (85—Dido has a pretty rocky medieval reputation as adulteress; does Francesca su�er from guilt by association?); that the protagonist’s summoning call was full of a�ection and was e�ective (87—is this to be applauded?). Later, he will tell us that Dante was greatly stirred by Francesca’s �rst speech (109–111— again, what moral view should we take of his behavior?). And he concludes the canto with the information that Paolo was weeping all through Francesca’s second speech (139–140—what do we make of these tears?) and that the protagonist, �lled with pity, collapsed in a faint (141–142—what moral view should we take of that?). The omniscient narrator could have given us answers to all these questions; he is content to raise them (intrinsically, he rarely asks questions outright) and leave them in our minds. Often, and surely in the Romantic era, many readers have thought that we are meant to identify with the protagonist’s view of the scene. And that view, at least, is unambiguous. He is intrigued by the sight of these two handsome shades (73–75), cries out to them with courteous regard for their prerogatives (80–81), bursts into a passionately-felt sense of identi�cation with them (112–114), tells Francesca as much (116–117), and then asks her to spell out exactly how she was overcome by love (118–120). And that is all he says. Of course the narrator tells us that, at the conclusion of Francesca’s words, he faints from pity, perhaps his single most eloquent response. We at least know where he stands.

What of Virgil, Dante’s guide? He only speaks twice, �rst to assure Dante that these lovers will come if he but summon them in the name of love (77–78—his laconic remark may be read either as a mere statement of fact or as the world-weary remark of the poet who knows all too much about what my friend John Fleming calls “Carthaginian love,” i.e., the passion that undermines reason, exempli�ed in Dido, as Virgil himself has told the tale in Aeneid IV). And then he has only one more two-word utterance (in Italian it is

the laconic “che pense”): “What are your thoughts?” (111—is he merely asking, seeing Dante so deep in reverie about the lovers, or is he delicately reminding Dante that he should be thinking, rather than feeling, since we have already been told by the narrator [at verse 39] both that the sin of lust makes “reason subject to desire” and that the protagonist has understood this?). Virgil has fewer than three verses of the seventy-one dedicated to the scene. What would he have said if the poet had allotted him more? It is interesting to speculate.

What about Francesca herself, the most loquacious of the four? She has thirty-eight verses to tell her story, well over half of the scene (88–107; 121–138). What she tells is moving and beautiful, like the woman herself, we imagine. In this reader’s view, one common element in both her speeches is that someone or something else is always being blamed for her unhappiness: the God who will not hear her prayers, the god of Love who made Paolo fall in love with her beautiful physical being and made her respond similarly to his, her husband for killing them, the book that, describing an adulterous kiss, encouraged them to engage in an adulterous embrace, and the man who wrote that book. I admit that I am here taking a dour view. Are we meant to read the scene this way? Most people do not. (A. B. Giamatti, with whom I used to converse endlessly about Dante, loved the Romantic reading of this canto. He once cursed me, complaining, “Are you going to try to ruin this scene for me too, Hollander?”) I hope it is clear that we all need to watch more carefully the actual exchanges among the various characters that might help establish a point of view from which we can study the events brought forward in the poem. Whatever else we can say, we should all be ready to admit that this is complicated business. Dante is beautiful, yes, but he is complicated.

It is important to acknowledge that Romantic readers have a point. Had Dante thought that all those in hell deserved as little attention as the saved a�ord them, in other words, if he felt about them as do Beatrice and the descended angel, he could have begun the poem in purgatory, o�ering a brief notice of the pains of the damned, of which it is better, he might have had the guardian of

purgatory say, not to speak. But he was interested in them, and not only as negative exemplars for those Christians who need to rea�rm their faith and will. The saints may have no interest in the damned, but neither we nor Dante are saints. And thus, one might argue, Inferno, the most e�ective part of the poem, in human terms, deals with the problem (sin) and not its solution (faith and good works). Do we have sympathy for the damned, at least those of them that reveal traits that we admire (e�ective rhetoric, strong feeling, a sense of their personal wrongness, even, at times, courtesy)? Of course we do. Yet we should be aware that there is a trap for us if we go too far. We need to learn to read ironically (a word that is only used once in all Dante’s works, in the incomplete thought that ends what we have of De vulgari eloquentia [II.xiv]), �nding an angle of vision that corresponds to the author’s, who expresses thoughts through his characters that need to be examined with care. That is a di�cult goal.

Nonetheless, it is noteworthy (though rarely, if ever, noted) that the “best” people in hell are not necessarily those whom we tend to admire most. They include those who were involved in Florentine public a�airs, always championing the cause of good governance: Ciacco (Inf. VI), Farinata degli Uberti (X), Brunetto Latini (XV), Jacopo Rusticucci and his mates (XVI), even Mosca dei Lamberti (XXVIII). All of these are unusual among the denizens of hell in that they either own up to their sins (not making an e�ort to persuade Dante of their innocence or simply to avoid his questions about their guilt) or want to be remembered for their good deeds on earth. That the “standard list” of sympathetic sinners only mentions two of them (Farinata and Brunetto) is informative: Francesca da Rimini (canto V), Farinata, Pier delle Vigne (XIII), Brunetto, Ulysses (XXVI), and Ugolino della Gherardesca (XXXIII). Francesca, Pier, Ulysses, and Ugolino all try to convince Dante of their worthiness, avoiding the subject of their sins. Their behavior in this regard might serve as a clue to an attentive reader. On this score, Ciacco is a good deal more reliable a witness than is Francesca.

There is more to say about many things. The text of the poem awaits, with annotations that will address many of these. Your

translators wish you an invigorated journey through hell (not a bad place once you get used to it) and your commentator hopes that you will �nd his remarks helpful.

Robert Hollander Tortola, 23 February 2000

The Inferno: English

1–9    10–21    22–27    28–36    37–43    44–54    55–60    61–66    67–75    76–78    79–90    91–100    101–111    112–120    121–129   

130–135    136   

OUTLINE: INFERNO I

Dante, having lost his way, in a dark wood hint of dawn: the sun on a mountaintop simile: survivor of shipwreck looking back at sea journey resumed; ascending the slope; a leopard dawn and reassurance a lion renews his fear; a she-wolf drives him back simile: merchant (or gambler?) losing everything apparition (of Virgil) and Dante’s �rst words Virgil identi�es himself his pointed question to Dante Dante’s recognition, praise of Virgil; plea for aid Virgil’s warning: power of the she-wolf Virgil’s prophecy of the hound that will defeat her Virgil will guide Dante through two realms to a third Virgil: a second guide will take him to those in bliss, since he is not allowed into that realm Dante agrees to be led through the �rst two realms the two set out

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INFERNO I

Midway in the journey of our life   → I came to myself in a dark wood,   → for the straight way was lost.   →

Ah, how hard it is to tell the nature of that wood, savage, dense and harsh— the very thought of it renews my fear!

It is so bitter death is hardly more so.   → But to set forth the good I found   → I will recount the other things I saw.

How I came there I cannot really tell, I was so full of sleep   → when I forsook the one true way.

But when I reached the foot of a hill,   → there where the valley ended   → that had pierced my heart with fear,   →

looking up, I saw its shoulders arrayed in the �rst light of the planet   → that leads men straight, no matter what their road.   →

Then the fear that had endured in the lake of my heart, all the night   → I spent in such distress, was calmed.

And as one who, with laboring breath,   → has escaped from the deep to the shore turns and looks back at the perilous waters,

so my mind, still in �ight,

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turned back to look once more upon the pass   → no mortal being ever left alive.

After I rested my wearied �esh a while, I took my way again along the desert slope, my �rm foot always lower than the other.   →

But now, near the beginning of the steep, a leopard light and swift   → and covered with a spotted pelt   →

refused to back away from me but so impeded, barred the way, that many times I turned to go back down.

It was the hour of morning, when the sun mounts with those stars   → that shone with it when God’s own love

�rst set in motion those fair things, so that, despite that beast with gaudy fur, I still could hope for good, encouraged

by the hour of the day and the sweet season, only to be struck by fear when I beheld a lion in my way.

He seemed about to pounce— his head held high and furious with hunger— so that the air appeared to tremble at him.

And then a she-wolf who, all hide and bones, seemed charged with all the appetites that have made many live in wretchedness

so weighed my spirits down with terror, which welled up at the sight of her,

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that I lost hope of making the ascent.

And like one who rejoices in his gains   → but when the time comes and he loses, turns all his thought to sadness and lament,

such did the restless beast make me— coming against me, step by step, it drove me down to where the sun is silent.

While I was �eeing to a lower place,   → before my eyes a �gure showed,   → faint, in the wide silence.   →

When I saw him in that vast desert,   → ‘Have mercy on me, whatever you are,’   → I cried, ‘whether shade or living man!’

He answered: ’Not a man, though once I was.   → My parents were from Lombardy— Mantua was their homeland.

‘I was born sub Julio, though late in his time,   → and lived at Rome, under good Augustus in an age of false and lying gods.

‘I was a poet and I sang   → the just son of Anchises come from Troy   → after proud Ilium was put to �ame.   →

‘But you, why are you turning back to misery? Why do you not climb the peak that gives delight,   → origin and cause of every joy?’

‘Are you then Virgil, the fountainhead   → that pours so full a stream of speech?’ I answered him, my head bent low in shame.   →

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‘O glory and light of all other poets, let my long study and great love avail that made me delve so deep into your volume.   →

‘You are my teacher and my author. You are the one from whom alone I took   → the noble style that has brought me honor.

‘See the beast that forced me to turn back. Save me from her, famous sage— she makes my veins and pulses tremble.’

‘It is another path that you must follow,’ he answered, when he saw me weeping, ‘if you would �ee this wild and savage place.

‘For the beast that moves you to cry out lets no man pass her way, but so besets him that she slays him.

‘Her nature is so vicious and malign her greedy appetite is never sated— after she feeds she is hungrier than ever.

‘Many are the creatures that she mates with,   → and there will yet be more, until the hound shall come who’ll make her die in pain.

‘He shall not feed on lands or lucre but on wisdom, love, and power. Between felt and felt shall be his birth.

‘He shall be the salvation of low-lying Italy,   → for which maiden Camilla, Euryalus,   → Turnus, and Nisus died of their wounds.

‘He shall hunt the beast through every town   →

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till he has sent her back to Hell whence primal envy set her loose.

‘Therefore, for your sake, I think it wise you follow me: I will be your guide, leading you, from here, through an eternal place

‘where you shall hear despairing cries and see those ancient souls in pain as they bewail their second death.   →

‘Then you shall see the ones who are content to burn because they hope to come, whenever it may be, among the blessed.

‘Should you desire to ascend to these, you’ll �nd a soul more �t to lead than I:   → I’ll leave you in her care when I depart.

‘For the Emperor who has His seat on high wills not, because I was a rebel to His law,   → that I should make my way into His city.

‘In every part He reigns and there He rules. There is His city and His lofty seat. Happy the one whom He elects to be there!’

And I answered: ‘Poet, I entreat you by the God you did not know, so that I may escape this harm and worse,   →

‘lead me to the realms you’ve just described that I may see Saint Peter’s gate   → and those you tell me are so sorrowful.’ Then he set out and I came on behind him.

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OUTLINE: INFERNO II

Dante, “alone” with Virgil, prepares for the journey invocation (Muses, “lofty genius”); his worthy memory Dante’s uncertainty as to his quali�cations simile: a man unwilling to do what he has resolved Virgil: Dante is a coward Virgil tells of his encounter with Beatrice in Limbo Virgil will lead Dante; why is Beatrice not fearful? Beatrice’s response: the saved are proof against hell a lady in heaven (Mary), Lucy, and Beatrice all help tears of Beatrice induce Virgil to begin at once Virgil chides Dante for his cowardice simile: �owers raised and opened by sun Dante’s renewed vigor; debt to Beatrice and to Virgil Dante has again embraced his �rst resolve the two again set out

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INFERNO II

Day was departing and the darkened air   → released the creatures of the earth from their labor, and I, alone,   →

prepared to face the struggle—   → of the way and of the pity of it— which memory, unerring, shall retrace.   →

O Muses, O lofty genius, aid me now!   → O memory, that set down what I saw, here shall your worth be shown.

I began: ‘Poet, you who guide me,   → consider if my powers will su�ce before you trust me to this arduous passage.   →

‘You tell of the father of Sylvius;   → that he, still subject to corruption, went to the eternal world while in the �esh.   →

‘But that the adversary of all evil showed;   → such favor to him, considering who and what he was, and the high sequel that would spring from him,

‘seems not un�tting to a man who understands.   → For in the Empyrean he was chosen to father holy Rome and her dominion,

‘both of these established—if we would speak;   → the truth—to be the sacred precinct where successors of great Peter have their throne.

‘On this journey, for which you grant him glory,

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he heard the words that prompted him;   → to victory and prepared the Papal mantle.   →

‘Later, the Chosen Vessel went there;   → to bring back con�rmation of our faith, the �rst step in our journey to salvation.

‘But why should I go there? who allows it? I am not Aeneas, nor am I Paul.   → Neither I nor any think me �t for this.   →

‘And so, if I commit myself to come, I fear it may be madness. You are wise, you understand what I cannot express.’

And as one who unwills what he has willed,   → changing his intent on second thought so that he quite gives over what he has begun,

such a man was I on that dark slope. With too much thinking I had undone;   → the enterprise so quick in its inception.

‘If I have rightly understood your words,’   → replied the shade of that great soul, ‘your spirit is assailed by cowardice,

‘which many a time so weighs upon a man it turns him back from noble enterprise, the way a beast shies from a shadow.   →

‘To free you from this fear I’ll tell you why I came and what I heard when �rst I felt compassion for you.

‘I was among the ones who are suspended;   → when a lady called me, so blessèd and so fair;   →

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that I implored her to command me.

‘Her eyes shone brighter than the stars. Gentle and clear, the words she spoke to me—   → an angel’s voice was in her speech:

‘ “O courteous Mantuan spirit,   → whose fame continues in the world and shall continue while the world endures,

‘ “my friend, who is no friend of Fortune,   → is so hindered on his way upon the desert slope;   → that, in his terror, he has turned back,

‘ “and, from what I hear of him in Heaven, I fear he has gone so far astray that I arose too late to help him.

‘ “Set out, and with your polished words;   → and whatever else is needed for his safety, go to his aid, that I may be consoled.

‘ “I who bid you go am Beatrice. I come from where I most desire to return. The love that moved me makes me speak.

‘ “And when I am before my Lord often will I o�er praise of you to Him.”   → Then she fell silent. And I began:

‘ “O lady of such virtue that by it alone;   → the human race surpasses all that lies within the smallest compass of the heavens,

‘ “so pleased am I at your command that my consent, were it already given, would be given late. You have but to make your desire known.

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‘ “But tell me why you do not hesitate to descend into the center of the earth;   → from the unbounded space you long for.”

‘ “Since you are so eager to know more,”   → she answered, “I shall be brief in telling you why I am not afraid to enter here.

‘ “We should fear those things alone that have the power to harm. Nothing else is frightening.

‘ “I am made such by God’s grace that your a�iction does not touch, nor can these �res assail me.

‘ “There is a gracious lady in Heaven so moved;   → by pity at his peril, she breaks stern judgment there above and lets me send you to him.

‘ “She summoned Lucy and made this request:   → «Your faithful one is now in need of you and I commend him to your care.»

‘ “Lucy, the enemy of every cruelty, arose and came to where I sat at venerable Rachel’s side,   →

‘ “and said: «Beatrice, true praise of God, why do you not help the one who loved you so that for your sake he left the vulgar herd?;   →

‘ “«Do you not hear the anguish in his tears? Do you not see the death besetting him;   → on the swollen river where the sea cannot prevail?»

‘ “Never were men on earth so swift to seek;   →

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their good or to escape their harm as I, after these words were spoken,

‘ “to descend here from my blessèd seat, trusting to the noble speech that honors you and those who have paid it heed.”

‘After she had said these things to me, she turned away her eyes, now bright with tears,   → making me more eager to set out.

‘And so I came to you just as she wished.   → I saved you from the beast denying you the short way to the mountain of delight.

‘What then? Why, why do you delay? Why do you let such cowardice rule your heart? Why are you not more spirited and sure,

‘when three such blessèd ladies care for you in Heaven’s court and my words promise so much good?’

As little �owers, bent and closed with chill of night, when the sun lights them, stand all open on their stems,

such, in my failing strength, did I become. And so much courage poured into my heart that I began, as one made resolute:

‘O how compassionate was she to help me,   → how courteous were you, so ready to obey the truthful words she spoke to you!

‘Your words have made my heart so eager for the journey

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that I’ve returned to my �rst intent.

‘Set out then, for one will prompts us both. You are my leader, you my lord and master,’   → I said to him, and when he moved ahead I entered on the deep and savage way.   →

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OUTLINE: INFERNO III

words inscribed above the gate of hell having read them, Dante is afraid Virgil admonishes, then encourages, Dante tumultuous sound made by mouths and hands Dante asks who these shades (in Circle “zero”) are Virgil: the neutrals and the neutral angels Dante wants to know the reason for their lamentation Virgil: they would rather be anyone but themselves Dante watches shades following a wavering banner he knows some, and one who “made the great refusal” they are stung by insects that make their faces bleed looking ahead, Dante sees a crowd at a riverbank Virgil says his questions will be answered later Dante’s shame at this implicit criticism appearance of Charon; his refusal to ferry Dante Virgil’s rejoinder stills Charon shades, cursing, enter his ski�; he strikes laggards similes: leaves in fall, falcon returning to falconer Virgil: the damned want the justice of their penalty Virgil explains Charon’s desire not to include Dante the earthquake and Dante’s fainting �t

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INFERNO III

THROUGH ME THE WAY TO THE CITY OF WOE,   → THROUGH ME THE WAY TO EVERLASTING PAIN,

THROUGH ME THE WAY AMONG THE LOST.   →

JUSTICE MOVED MY MAKER ON HIGH.   → DIVINE POWER MADE ME,   → WISDOM SUPREME, AND PRIMAL LOVE.

BEFORE ME NOTHING WAS BUT THINGS ETERNAL,   → AND ETERNAL, I ENDURE. ABANDON ALL HOPE, YOU WHO ENTER HERE.

These words, dark in hue, I saw inscribed   → over an archway. And then I said: ‘Master, for me their meaning is hard.’   →

And he, as one who understood:   → ‘Here you must banish all distrust, here must all cowardice be slain.

‘We have come to where I said you would see the miserable sinners who have lost the good of the intellect.’   →

And after he had put his hand on mine with a reassuring look that gave me comfort, he led me toward things unknown to man.   →

Now sighs, loud wailing, lamentation   → resounded through the starless air, so that I too began to weep.   →

Unfamiliar tongues, horrendous accents,   →

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words of su�ering, cries of rage, voices loud and faint, the sound of slapping hands—   →

all these made a tumult, always whirling in that black and timeless air, as sand is swirled in a whirlwind.

And I, my head encircled by error, said: ‘Master, what is this I hear, and what people are these so overcome by pain?’

And he to me: ‘This miserable state is borne   → by the wretched souls of those who lived without disgrace yet without praise.

‘They intermingle with that wicked band   → of angels, not rebellious and not faithful to God, who held themselves apart.

‘Loath to impair its beauty, Heaven casts them out,   → and depth of Hell does not receive them lest on their account the evil angels gloat.’

And I: ‘Master, what is so grievous to them, that they lament so bitterly?’ He replied: ‘I can tell you in few words.

‘They have no hope of death,   → and their blind life is so abject that they are envious of every other lot.

‘The world does not permit report of them. Mercy and justice hold them in contempt.   → Let us not speak of them—look and pass by.’

And I, all eyes, saw a whirling banner   → that ran so fast it seemed as though

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it never could �nd rest.

Behind it came so long a �le of people that I could not believe death had undone so many.

After I recognized a few of these,   → I saw and knew the shade of him who, through cowardice, made the great refusal.

At once with certainty I understood this was that worthless crew hateful alike to God and to His foes.

These wretches, who never were alive,   → were naked and beset by stinging �ies and wasps

that made their faces stream with blood, which, mingled with their tears, was gathered at their feet by loathsome worms.

And then, �xing my gaze farther on,   → I saw souls standing on the shore of a wide river, and so I said: ‘Master, permit me �rst

‘to know who they are and then what inner law makes them so eager for the crossing, or so they seem in this dim light.’   →

And he to me: ‘You shall know these things,   → but not before we stay our steps on the mournful shore of Acheron.’

Then, my eyes cast down with shame, fearing my words displeased him, I did not speak until we reached that stream.

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And now, coming toward us in a boat, an old man, his hair white with age, cried out: ‘Woe unto you, you wicked souls,

‘give up all hope of ever seeing Heaven. I come to take you to the other shore, into eternal darkness, into heat and chill.

‘And you there, you living soul,   → move aside from these now dead.’ But when he saw I did not move,

he said: ‘By another way, another port,   → not here, you’ll come to shore and cross. A lighter ship must carry you.’

And my leader: ‘Charon, do not torment yourself.   → It is so willed where will and power are one,   → and ask no more.’

That stilled the shaggy jowls of the pilot of the livid marsh, about whose eyes burned wheels of �ame.

But those souls, naked and desolate, lost their color. With chattering teeth they heard his brutal words.

They blasphemed God, their parents, the human race, the place, the time, the seed   → of their begetting and their birth.

Then, weeping bitterly, they drew together to the accursèd shore that waits for everyone who fears not God.

Charon the demon, with eyes of glowing coals,   →

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beckons to them, herds them all aboard, striking anyone who slackens with his oar.   →

Just as in autumn the leaves fall away,   → one, and then another, until the bough sees all its spoil upon the ground,

so the wicked seed of Adam �ing themselves one by one from shore, at his signal, as does a falcon at its summons.

Thus they depart over dark water, and before they have landed on the other side another crowd has gathered on this shore.

‘My son,’ said the courteous master, ‘all those who die in the wrath of God assemble here from every land.

‘And they are eager to cross the river, for the justice of God so spurs them on   → their very fear is turned to longing.

‘No good soul ever crosses at this place. Thus, if Charon complains on your account, now you can grasp the meaning of his words.’

When he had ended, the gloomy plain shook   → with such force, the memory of my terror makes me again break out in sweat.

From the weeping ground there sprang a wind, �aming with vermilion light, which overmastered all my senses, and I dropped like a man pulled down by sleep.   →

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103–105    106–117    118–129    130–144    145–147    148–151   

OUTLINE: INFERNO IV

Dante awakened by “thunder” (after “lightning”) once again Dante cannot see in the darkness Virgil’s pallor entering the �rst Circle Virgil says his face is pale from pity, not fear to Dante the lament here seems less mournful (sighs) Virgil is eager for Dante’s questions about those who dwell in Limbo, sinless, but without faith Dante grieves, realizing many good people are here Dante: has anyone gone from Limbo to heaven? Virgil describes the harrowing of hell, which he saw the lightest place in hell: honorable souls Dante: why are these set apart in the light? Virgil: their fame on earth has this result in heaven Dante hears a voice welcome Virgil on his return the poets (Homer, Horace, Ovid, Lucan) approach the “school” greets Dante and includes him among them unreported discourse of the six poets the “noble castle” and its inner meadow Greeks, Romans, and Saladin: active life (14 named) Greeks, Romans, Arabs: contemplative life (21 named) the poet insists on his inability to give a full account Virgil and Dante move on to less peaceful precincts

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INFERNO IV

A heavy thunderclap broke my deep sleep   → so that I started up like one shaken awake by force.

With rested eyes, I stood and looked about me, then �xed my gaze to make out where I was.

I found myself upon the brink of an abyss of su�ering �lled with the roar of endless woe.

It was full of vapor, dark and deep. Straining my eyes toward the bottom, I could see nothing.

‘Now let us descend into the blind world   → down there,’ began the poet, gone pale. ‘I will be �rst and you come after.’

And I, noting his pallor, said:   → ‘How shall I come if you’re afraid, you, who give me comfort when I falter?’   →

And he to me: ‘The anguish of the souls   → below us paints my face with pity you mistake for fear.

‘Let us go, for the long road calls us.’ Thus he went �rst and had me enter the �rst circle girding the abyss.

Here, as far as I could tell by listening,   →

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was no lamentation other than the sighs that kept the air forever trembling.

These came from grief without torment borne by vast crowds of men, and women, and little children.   →

My master began: ‘You do not ask about the souls you see? I want you to know, before you venture farther,

‘they did not sin. Though they have merit, that is not enough, for they were unbaptized, denied the gateway to the faith that you profess.

‘And if they lived before the Christians lived, they did not worship God aright. And among these I am one.

‘For such defects, and for no other fault, we are lost, and a�icted but in this, that without hope we live in longing.’   →

When I understood, great sadness seized my heart, for then I knew that beings of great worth   → were here suspended in this Limbo.   →

‘Tell me, master, tell me, sir,’ I began,   → seeking assurance in the faith that conquers every doubt,

‘did ever anyone, either by his own or by another’s merit, go forth from here and rise to blessedness?’

And he, who understood my covert speech:   → ‘I was new to this condition when I saw

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a mighty one descend, crowned, with the sign of victory.

‘Out of our midst he plucked the shade   → of our �rst parent, of Abel his son, of Noah, and of Moses, obedient in giving laws,

‘the patriarch Abraham, David the King, Israel with his father and his sons, and with Rachel, for whom he served so long,

‘as well as many others, and he made them blessed. And, I would have you know, before these   → no human souls were saved.’

We did not halt our movement as he spoke, but all the while were passing through a wood— I mean a wood of thronging spirits.

We had not yet gone far from where I’d slept when I beheld a blaze of light that overcame a hemisphere of darkness,

though still a good way from it, yet not so far but I discerned an honorable company was gathered there.   →

‘O you who honor art and knowledge,   → why are these so honored they are set apart from the condition of the rest?’

And he answered: ‘Their honorable fame, which echoes in your life above, gains favor in Heaven, which thus advances them.’   →

Just then I heard a voice that said:   → ‘Honor the loftiest of poets!   → His shade returns that had gone forth.’

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When the voice had paused and there was silence, I saw four worthy shades approach, their countenances neither sad nor joyful.

The good master spoke: ‘Take note of him who holds that sword in hand   → and comes as lord before the three:

‘He is Homer, sovereign poet.   →   → Next comes Horace the satirist,   → Ovid is third, the last is Lucan.   →

‘Since each is joined to me in the name the one voice uttered, they do me honor and, doing so, do well.’   →

There I saw assembled the fair school of the lord of loftiest song,   → soaring like an eagle far above the rest.

After they conversed a while, they turned to me with signs of greeting, and my master smiled at this.   →

And then they showed me greater honor still, for they made me one of their company,   → so that I became the sixth amidst such wisdom.   →

Thus we went onward to the light, speaking of things that here are best unsaid,   → just as there it was �tting to express them.

We came to the foot of a noble castle,   → encircled seven times by towering walls, defended round about by a fair stream.

Over this stream we moved as on dry land.

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Through seven gates I entered with these sages until we came to a fresh, green meadow.

People were there with grave, slow-moving eyes and visages of great authority. They seldom spoke, and then in gentle tones.

When we withdrew over to one side   → into an open space, high in the light, we could observe them all.

There before me on the enameled green the great spirits were revealed. In my heart I exult at what I saw.

I saw Electra with many of her line,   → of whom I recognized Hector, Aeneas, and Caesar, in arms, with his falcon eyes.   →

I saw Camilla and Penthesilea.   → Seated apart I saw King Latinus, and next to him Lavinia, his daughter.

I saw that Brutus who drove out Tarquinius,   → Lucretia, Julia, Marcia, and Cornelia. And Saladin I saw, alone, apart.   →

When I raised my eyes a little higher, I saw the master of those who know,   → sitting among his philosophic kindred.

Eyes trained on him, all show him honor. In front of all the rest and nearest him   → I saw Socrates and Plato.

I saw Democritus, who ascribes the world to chance, Diogenes, Anaxagoras, and Thales,

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Empedocles, Heraclitus, and Zeno.

I saw the skilled collector of the qualities   → of things—I mean Dioscorides—and I saw Orpheus, Cicero, Linus, and moral Seneca,

Euclid the geometer, and Ptolemy,   → Hippocrates, Avicenna, Galen, and Averroes, who wrote the weighty glosses.

I cannot give account of all of them,   → for the length of my theme so drives me on that often the telling comes short of the fact.

The company of six falls o� to two and my wise leader brings me by another way out of the still, into the trembling, air. And I come to a place where nothing shines.

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OUTLINE: INFERNO V

descent to the second Circle: the lustful proem: Minos judge of the damned Minos attempts to discourage Dante Virgil repeats his magical phrase (III.95–96) again, impressions of sound are the �rst Dante has the “hellscape”: weeping, darkness, storm two similes: starlings and cranes Dante wants to know who are punished here; Virgil: Semiramis, Dido, Cleopatra Helen, Achilles, Paris, Tristan, and many others Dante’s piteous reaction and desire to speak he calls out to the pair of lovers simile: doves returning to nest Francesca’s �rst speech:

her kind words for Dante’s kindness she is from Ravenna Love … Love … Love…: her litany of joy, woe

Dante’s reaction and Virgil’s laconic question Dante’s rumination and question to Francesca Francesca’s second response:

despite the pain it will cause, she will speak she and Paolo were reading of Lancelot in love en�amed by the reading, they embraced

coda: Francesca concludes, Paolo weeps, Dante faints

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INFERNO V

Thus I descended from the �rst circle   → down into the second, which girds a smaller space but greater agony to goad lament.

There stands Minos, snarling, terrible.   → He examines each o�ender at the entrance, judges and dispatches as he encoils himself.   →

I mean that when the ill-begotten soul   → stands there before him it confesses all,   → and that accomplished judge of sins   →

decides what place in Hell is �t for it, then coils his tail around himself to count how many circles down the soul must go.

Always before him stands a crowd of them, going to judgment each in turn. They tell, they hear, and then are hurled down.

‘O you who come to this abode of pain,’ said Minos when he saw me, pausing   → in the exercise of his high o�ce,   →

‘beware how you come in and whom you trust. Don’t let the easy entrance fool you.   → And my leader to him: ‘Why all this shouting?

‘Hinder not his destined journey.   → It is so willed where will and power are one, and ask no more.’

Now I can hear the screams   →

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of agony. Now I have come   → where a great wailing beats upon me.

I reached a place mute of all light, which bellows as the sea in tempest tossed by con�icting winds.

The hellish squall, which never rests, sweeps spirits in its headlong rush, tormenting, whirls and strikes them.

Caught in that path of violence,   → they shriek, weep, and lament. Then how they curse the power of God!

I understood that to such torment the carnal sinners are condemned, they who make reason subject to desire.

As, in cold weather, the wings of starlings   →   → bear them up in wide, dense �ocks, so does that blast propel the wicked spirits.

Here and there, down and up, it drives them. Never are they comforted by hope of rest or even lesser punishment.

Just as cranes chant their mournful songs,   → making a long line in the air, thus I saw approach, heaving plaintive sighs,

shades lifted on that turbulence, so that I said: ‘Master, who are these whom the black air lashes?’

‘The �rst of them about whom you would hear,’ he then replied,

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‘was empress over many tongues.

‘She was so given to the vice of lechery she made lust licit in her law to take away the blame she had incurred.

‘She is Semiramis, of whom we read   →   → that she, once Ninus’ wife, succeeded him. She held sway in the land the Sultan rules.

‘Here is she who broke faith with the ashes   →   → of Sichaeus and slew herself for love.   → The next is wanton Cleopatra.   →

‘See Helen, for whose sake so many years of ill rolled past. And see the great Achilles,   → who battled, at the last, with love.

‘See Paris, Tristan,’ and he showed me more than a thousand shades, naming as he pointed, whom love had parted from our life.   →

When I heard my teacher name the ladies and the knights of old, pity overcame me   → and I almost lost my senses.

I began: ‘Poet, gladly would I speak with these two that move together   → and seem to be so light upon the wind.’

And he: ‘Once they are nearer, you will see:   → if you entreat them by the love that leads them, they will come.’

As soon as the wind had bent them to us, I raised my voice: ‘O wearied souls,   → if it is not forbidden, come speak with us.’

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As doves, summoned by desire, their wings   → outstretched and motionless, move on the air, borne by their will to the sweet nest,

so did these leave the troop where Dido is, coming to us through the malignant air, such force had my a�ectionate call.

‘O living creature, gracious and kind,   → that come through somber air to visit us who stained the world with blood,

‘if the King of the universe were our friend   →   → we would pray that He might give you peace, since you show pity for our grievous plight.

‘We long to hear and speak of that which you desire to speak and know, here, while the wind has calmed.

‘On that shore where the river Po with all its tributaries slows to peaceful �ow, there I was born.

‘Love, quick to kindle in the gentle heart,   → seized this man with the fair form taken from me. The way of it a�icts me still.   →

‘Love, which absolves no one beloved from loving,   → seized me so strongly with his charm that, as you see, it has not left me yet.

‘Love brought us to one death. Caïna waits for him who quenched our lives.   → These words were borne from them to us.

And when I’d heard those two a�icted souls   →

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I bowed my head and held it low until at last the poet said: ‘What are your thoughts?’

In answer I replied: ‘Oh, how many sweet thoughts, what great desire, have brought them to this woeful pass!’

Then I turned to them again to speak and I began: ‘Francesca, your torments make me weep for grief and pity,

‘but tell me, in that season of sweet sighs,   → how and by what signs did Love acquaint you with your hesitant desires?’

And she to me: ‘There is no greater sorrow   → than to recall our time of joy in wretchedness—and this your teacher knows.   →

‘But if you feel such longing to know the �rst root of our love, I shall tell as one who weeps in telling.

‘One day, to pass the time in pleasure,   → we read of Lancelot, how love enthralled him. We were alone, without the least misgiving.

‘More than once that reading made our eyes meet and drained the color from our faces. Still, it was a single instant overcame us:   →

‘When we read how the longed-for smile was kissed by so renowned a lover, this man, who never shall be parted from me,

‘all trembling, kissed me on my mouth. A Galeotto was the book and he that wrote it.   →

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That day we read in it no further.’   →

While the one spirit said this the other wept, so that for pity   → I swooned as if in death.   → And down I fell as a dead body falls.   →

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OUTLINE: INFERNO VI

Dante recovers from his syncope to �nd a new place the third Circle: cold downpour on stinking ground Cerberus presides, barking; he �ays the sinners Cerberus’s opposition and Virgil’s “sop” for him simile: dog ravenously gulping food Dante and Virgil pass over the prone shades Florence: Ciacco recognizes Dante and presents self Dante does not recognize him, trans�gured by pain Ciacco identi�es himself and his sin: gluttony Dante asks his views on the likely future of the city Ciacco: �rst the Whites, then the Blacks, will win the just are few, the sinners many Dante wants to know the afterlife of �ve townsmen Ciacco: all are in hell, as Dante will perhaps see Ciacco would like to be remembered to those above he returns to his hebetude Virgil: he will wake no more until the last trumpet Virgil on the increase of eternal pain for the damned they talk until they are ready to descend: Plutus

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INFERNO VI

With my returning senses that had failed   → at the piteous state of those two kindred,   → which had confounded me with grief,

new torments and new souls in torment I see about me, wherever I may move, or turn, or set my gaze.

I am in the third circle, of eternal,   → hateful rain, cold and leaden, changeless in its monotony.

Heavy hailstones, �lthy water, and snow pour down through gloomy air. The ground it falls on reeks.

Cerberus, �erce and monstrous beast,   → barks from three gullets like a dog over the people underneath that muck.

His eyes are red, his beard a greasy black, his belly swollen. With his taloned hands he claws the spirits, �ays and quarters them.

The rain makes them howl like dogs. The unholy wretches often turn their bodies, making of one side a shield for the other.

When Cerberus—that huge worm—noticed us, he opened up his jaws and showed his fangs. There was no part of him he held in check.

But then my leader spread his hands,   →

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picked up some earth, and with full �sts tossed soil into the ravenous gullets.

As the dog that yelps with craving   → grows quiet while it chews its food, absorbed in trying to devour it,

the foul heads of that demon Cerberus were stilled, who otherwise so thunders on the souls they would as soon be deaf.

We were passing over shades sprawled   → under heavy rain, setting our feet upon their emptiness, which seems real bodies.

All of them were lying on the ground,   → except for one who sat bolt upright when he saw us pass before him.

‘O you who come escorted through this Hell,’ he said, ‘if you can, bring me back to mind. You were made before I was undone.’

And I to him: ‘The punishment you su�er   → may be blotting you from memory: it doesn’t seem to me I’ve ever seen you.

‘But tell me who you are to have been put into this misery with such a penalty that none, though harsher, is more loathsome.’

And he to me: ‘Your city, so full of envy   → that now the sack spills over, held me in its con�nes in the sunlit life.

‘You and my townsmen called me Ciacco.   → For the pernicious fault of gluttony,

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as you can see, I’m prostrate in this rain.

‘And in my misery I am not alone. All those here share a single penalty for the same fault.’ He said no more.

I answered him: ‘Ciacco, your distress so weighs on me it bids me weep. But tell me, if you can, what shall be the fate

‘of the citizens within the riven city? Are any in it just? And tell me why such discord has assailed it.’

And he to me: ‘After long feuding   → they shall come to blood. The rustic faction, having done great harm, shall drive the others out.

‘But it in turn must fall to them,   → within three years, by power of him who now just bides his time.

‘These in their arrogance will long subject the other faction to their heavy yoke, despite its weeping and its shame.

‘Two men are just and are not heeded there.   → Pride, envy, and avarice are the sparks   → that have set the hearts of all on �re.’

With that he ended his distressing words. And I to him: ‘I wish you would instruct me more, granting me the gift of further speech.

‘Farinata and Tegghiaio, who were so worthy,   → Jacopo Rusticucci, Arrigo, and Mosca, and the rest whose minds were bent on doing good,

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‘tell me where they are and how they fare. For great desire presses me to learn whether Heaven sweetens or Hell embitters them.’

And he: ‘They are among the blacker souls. Di�erent vices weigh them toward the bottom, as you shall see if you descend that far.

‘But when you have returned to the sweet world   → I pray you bring me to men’s memory. I say no more nor answer you again.’   →

With that his clear eyes lost their focus.   → He gazed at me until his head drooped down. Then he fell back among his blind companions.

And my leader said: ‘He wakes no more until angelic trumpets sound the advent of the hostile Power.

‘Then each shall �nd again his miserable tomb, shall take again his �esh and form, and hear the judgment that eternally resounds.’   →

So we passed on through the foul mix of shades and rain with lagging steps, touching a little on the life to come.   →

‘Master,’ I asked, ‘after the great Judgment will these torments be greater, less, or will they stay as harsh as they are now?’

And he replied: ‘Return to your science,   → which has it that, in measure of a thing’s perfection, it feels both more of pleasure and of pain.

‘Although these accursèd people   →

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will never come to true perfection, they will be nearer it than they are now.’

We went along that curving road, with much more talk than I repeat, and reached the point of our descent. And there we came on Plutus, our great foe.

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OUTLINE: INFERNO VII

proem: Plutus speaks; Virgil answers; Plutus collapses the fourth Circle and Dante’s apostrophe of Justice simile: waves meeting between Charybdis and Scylla the avaricious and prodigal at their “jousts” three exchanges between Dante & Virgil:

Dante: are the tonsured ones all clerics? Virgil’s response is a�rmative Dante expects to recognize the sinners here Virgil: no, their sin makes them indistinguishable Dante: what is the “Fortune” of which you speak? Virgil’s pronouncements on the role of Fortune

Virgil prepares Dante for descent to the �fth Circle their descent, following its source, to Styx the bog, with the wrathful in con�ict with one another and those below the water, sighing and gurgling coda: retrospect over Styx, prospect of tower

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‘Pape Satàn, Pape Satàn, aleppe!’   → burst out Plutus in his raucous voice. And the courteous, all-discerning sage,

to comfort me, said: ‘Do not be overcome by fear. However powerful he may be, he’ll not prevent our climbing down this cli�.’

Then he turned to that bloated face and said: ‘Silence, accursèd wolf!   → Let your fury feed itself inside you.

‘Not without sanction is this journey down the pit.   → It is willed on high, where Michael did avenge the proud rebellion.’

As sails, swollen by the wind,   → fall in a tangle when the mainmast snaps, so fell that cruel beast to the ground.

Into the fourth hollow we made our way, descending the dismal slope that crams in all the evil of the universe.

Ah, Justice of God, who heaps up   → such strange punishment and pain as I saw there? And why do our sins so waste us?

Just as the waves clash above Charybdis,   → one breaking on the other when they meet, so here the souls move in their necessary dance.   →

Here the sinners were more numerous than elsewhere,   →

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and they, with great shouts, from opposite sides were shoving burdens forward with their chests.

They crashed into each other, turned and beat retreat, shoving their loads and shouting: ‘Why do you hoard?’ or ‘Why do you squander?’

Thus they proceeded in their dismal round   → on both sides toward the opposite point, taunting each other with the same refrain.

Once at that point, each group turned back along its semi-circle to the next encounter. And I, my heart pierced almost through,   →

said: ‘Master, now explain to me who these people are. Were those with tonsured heads,   → the ones there to our left, all clerics?’

‘All of them had such squinting minds in their �rst lives,’ he said, ‘they kept no measure in their spending.

‘Their voices howl this clear enough just as they reach the twin points on the circle where opposing sins divide them.

‘These were clerics who have no lid of hair   → upon their heads, and popes and cardinals, in whom avarice achieves its excess.’

And I: ‘Master, in such a crew as this I ought to recognize at least a few who were befouled with these o�enses.’

And he to me: ‘You muster an empty thought. The undiscerning life that made them foul

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now makes them hard to recognize.

‘The two groups will collide forever. These will rise from the grave with �sts tight, these with hair cropped.   →

‘Ill-giving and ill-keeping have stolen the fair world from them and set them to this scu�e. As for that, I prettify no words for it.

‘Now you see, my son, what brief mockery Fortune makes of goods we trust her with,   → for which the race of men embroil themselves.

‘All the gold that lies beneath the moon, or ever did, could never give a moment’s rest to any of these wearied souls.’

‘Master,’ I said, ‘tell me more: this Fortune whom you mention, who is she that holds the world’s possessions tightly in her clutches?’

And he to me: ‘O foolish creatures,   → what great ignorance besets you! I’ll have you feed upon my judgment of her:

‘He whose wisdom transcends all made the heavens and gave them guides, so that all parts re�ect on every part

‘in equal distribution of the light. Just so, He ordained for worldly splendors a general minister and guide

‘who shifts those worthless goods, from time to time, from race to race, from one blood to another beyond the intervention of human wit.

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‘One people comes to rule, another languishes, in keeping with her judgment, as secret as a serpent hidden in the grass.   →

‘Your wisdom cannot stand against her. She foresees, she judges, she maintains her reign, as do the other heavenly powers.   →

‘Her mutability admits no rest. Necessity compels her to be swift, and frequent are the changes in men’s state.   →

‘She is reviled by the very ones who most should praise her, blaming and defaming her unjustly.

‘But she is blessed and does not hear them. Happy with the other primal creatures, she turns her sphere, rejoicing in her bliss.

‘Now we must descend to greater anguish. For every star that rose when I set out   → is sinking now—we must not linger here.’

We crossed the circle to the other bank, beside a spring that bubbles up and �ows into a channel it makes for itself.

The water was darker than the deepest purple. Accompanied by its murky waves we began our strange descent.

This dreary stream, once it has reached   → these malignant, ashen slopes, drains out into the swamp called Styx.

And I, my gaze trans�xed, could see   →

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people with angry faces in that bog, naked, their bodies smeared with mud.

They struck each other with their hands, their heads, their chests and feet, and tore each other with their teeth.

The good master said: ‘Son, now you see the souls of those whom anger overcame. And I would have you know for certain

‘that plunged beneath these waters,   → as your eyes will tell you, are souls whose sighs with bubbles make the water’s surface seethe.

‘Fixed in the slime they say: “We were sullen in the sweet air that in the sun rejoices, �lled as we were with slothful fumes.

‘ “Now we are sullen in black mire.” This hymn they gurgle in their gullets, for they cannot get a word out whole.’

Thus we made our circle round that �lthy bog, keeping between the bank and swamp, �xing our gaze on those who swallow mud. And we came to the foot of a tower at last.

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65–81    82–85    86–93    94–96    97–108    109–111    112–120    121–130   

OUTLINE: INFERNO VIII

WRATH  (�fth Circle continues, vv. 1–81 an interpolation) signal lights and an answering light Dante’s questions and Virgil’s reply simile: swiftly �ying arrow Phlegyas, his ski�; his wrath at Virgil’s rebuke Dante’s weight displaces water beneath the ski� Filippo Argenti: hostile exchange with Dante Filippo Argenti: Dante’s reaction and Virgil’s assent Virgil’s musing on the wealth of kings Filippo Argenti: Dante’s wish and its ful�llment

CITY OF DIS  (sixth Circle begins) approach to Dis and arrival in Phlegyas’s ski� rebel angels decry the approach of living Dante they will parley, but with Virgil alone �rst address to reader in the poem Dante’s concerns and Virgil’s comforting Virgil leaves Dante alone for the �rst time the rebel angels rebel once again; Virgil’s chagrin Virgil’s promise of aid from above

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INFERNO VIII

To continue, let me say that long before   → we reached the foot of that high tower our eyes had noted at its top

two �aming lights displayed up there   → to which another, so far o� the eye could hardly make it out, sent back a signal.

And turning to that sea of wisdom, I asked:   → ‘What does this mean? And that other �re, what does it answer? And who are they that made it?’

And he to me: ‘Over the �lthy waves you may already glimpse what is to come, if the marsh-fumes do not hide it from you.’

Never did a bowstring loose an arrow that whipped away more swiftly through the air than, even as I watched, a ski� came skimming   →

straight toward us on the water, under the guidance of a single helmsman, crying: ‘Now you are caught, damned spirit!’   →

‘Phlegyas, Phlegyas, this time you shout in vain,’   → replied my lord: ‘You’ll not have us any longer   → than it takes to cross this bog.’

Like one who learns of a deceitful plot   → that has been hatched against him and begins to fret, such was Phlegyas in his sti�ed wrath.

My leader stepped into the boat,   →

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and had me follow after. And only then did it seem laden.

As soon as he and I were in the bark the ancient prow moves o�, cutting deeper through the water than when it carries souls.

While we crossed the stagnant swamp   → one cloaked in mud rose up to say:   → ‘Who are you that you come before your time?’

And I to him: ‘If I come, I do not stay. But you, who are you, now become so foul?’ He answered: ‘As you can see, I am one who weeps.’

And I to him: ‘In weeping and in misery,   → accursèd spirit, may you stay. I know you, for all your �lth.’

When he stretched both his hands toward the boat,   → the wary master thrust him o�, saying: ‘Away there with the other dogs!’

Then my master put his arms around my neck, kissed my face and said: ‘Indignant soul, blessed is she that bore you in her womb!

‘In the world this man was full of arrogance.   → Not one good deed adorns his memory. That is why his shade is so enraged.

‘How many now above who think themselves great kings will lie here in the mud, like swine, leaving behind nothing but ill repute!’

And I: ‘Master, I would be most eager to see him pushed deep down into this soup

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before we leave the lake.’

And he to me: ‘Before the shore comes into view you’ll have your satisfaction. Your wish deserves to be ful�lled.’

Soon I watched him get so torn to pieces by the muddy crew, I still give praise and thanks to God for it.

All cried: ‘Get Filippo Argenti!’   → And that spiteful Florentine spirit   → gnawed at himself with his own teeth.   →

Of him I say no more. Then we moved on, when such a sound of mourning struck my ears I opened my eyes wide to look ahead.

The good master said: ‘Now, my son, we approach the city known as Dis,   → with its vast army and its burdened citizens.’

And I: ‘Master, I can clearly see its mosques   → within the ramparts, glowing red as if they’d just been taken from the �re.’

And he to me: ‘The eternal �re that burns inside them here in nether Hell makes them show red, as you can see.’

At last we reached the moats dug deep around the dismal city. Its walls seemed made of iron.   →

Not until we’d made a wide approach did we come to a place where the boatman bellowed: ‘Out with you here, this is the entrance.’   →

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At the threshold I saw more than a thousand angels   → fallen from Heaven. Angrily they shouted: ‘Who is this, who is not dead,

‘yet passes through the kingdom of the dead?’ At this my prudent master made a sign that he would speak with them apart.

Then they reined in their great disdain enough to say: ‘You come—alone. Let him be gone, who has so boldly made his way into this kingdom.

‘Let him retrace his reckless path alone— let him see if he can, for you shall stay, you who have led him through this gloomy realm.’

Reader, how could I not lose heart   → at the sound of these accursèd words? I thought I would never make it back.

‘O my dear leader, who seven times and more   → have braced my con�dence and rescued me from the grave dangers that assailed me,

‘do not leave me,’ I cried, ‘helpless now! If going farther is denied us, let us at once retrace our steps.’

But the mentor who had brought me there replied: ‘Have no fear. None can prevent our passage,   → so great a power granted it to us.

‘Wait for me here. Comfort your weary spirit   → and feed it with good hope. I will not forsake you in the nether world.’

He goes away and leaves me there,

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my gentle father, and I remain in doubt, ‘yes’ and ‘no’ at war within my mind.

I could not hear what he proposed, but it was not long he stayed with them before they pushed and scrambled back inside.

Then our adversaries slammed shut the gates   → against my master, who, left outside, came back to me with halting steps.

He had his eyes upon the ground, his brows shorn of all con�dence. Sighing, he muttered: ‘Who dares deny me access to the realm of pain?’

To me he said: ‘Be not dismayed   → at my vexation. In this contest I’ll prevail, whatever they contrive to keep us out.

‘This insolence of theirs is nothing new: they showed it once before, at another gate. It still stands open without lock or bolt.

‘Over it you saw the deadly writing.   → Even now, making his unescorted way   → down through the circles, one descends by whom the city shall be opened.’

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OUTLINE: INFERNO IX

Dante’s pallor, Virgil’s reaction, Dante’s response Dante’s pointed question and Virgil’s general response a precision: his previous journey to the pit of hell Virgil: a need now for assistance in entering the city the Furies and their threat: Medusa Virgil’s ministrations to threatened Dante address to reader (second in poem) simile: sound of advancing storm Virgil uncovers Dante’s eyes as the “storm” approaches simile: frogs leaving pond at the advent of a snake Dante obeisant before the messenger’s angelic disdain his speech to the fallen angels and abrupt departure the poets’ entrance into Dis, force no longer needed the sixth Circle: a plain of torment simile: cemeteries at Arles and Pola the tombs of the heretics, glowing red with heat Dante’s question and Virgil’s answer: heresy coda: the rightward turn

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INFERNO IX

The pallor cowardice painted on my face   → when I saw my leader turning back made him hasten to compose his features.

He stopped, like a man intent on listening, for the eye could not probe far through that dim air and murky fog.

‘Yet we must win this �ght,’ he began,   → ‘or else.… Such help was promised us. How long it seems to me till someone comes!’

I clearly saw that he had covered up   → his �rst words with the others that came after, words so di�erent in meaning.

Still, I was �lled with fear by what he said. Perhaps I understood his broken phrase to hold worse meaning than it did.

‘Does ever anyone from the �rst circle, where the only penalty is hope cut o�,   → descend so deep into this dismal pit?’

I put this question and he answered:   → ‘It seldom happens that a soul from Limbo undertakes the journey I am on.

‘It is true I came here once before, conjured by pitiless Erichtho, who could call shades back into their bodies.

‘I had not long been naked of my �esh

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when she compelled me to go inside this wall to fetch a spirit from the circle of Judas.   →

‘That is the lowest place, the darkest,   → and farthest from the heaven that encircles all. Well do I know the way—so have no fear.

‘This swamp, which belches forth such noxious stench, hems in the woeful city, circling it. Now we cannot enter without wrath.’   →

And he said more, but I do not remember, for my eyes and thoughts were drawn to the high tower’s blazing peak

where all at once, erect, had risen three hellish, blood-stained Furies:   → they had the limbs and shape of women,

their waists encircled by green hydras. Thin serpents and horned snakes entwined, in place of hair, their savage brows.

And he, who knew full well the handmaids of the queen of endless lamentation, said to me: ‘See the �erce Furies!

‘That is Megaera on the left. On the right Alecto wails. In the middle is Tisiphone.’ And with that he fell silent.

Each rent her breast with her own nails. And with their palms they struck themselves, shrieking. In fear I pressed close to the poet.

‘Let Medusa come and we’ll turn him to stone,’   → they cried, looking down. ‘To our cost,

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we failed to avenge the assault of Theseus.’   →

‘Turn your back and keep your eyes shut, for if the Gorgon head appears and should you see it, all chance for your return above is lost.’

While my master spoke he turned me round   → and, placing no trust in my own hands, covered my face with his hands also.

O you who have sound intellects, consider the teaching that is hidden behind the veil of these strange verses.

And now there came, over the turbid waves,   → a dreadful, crashing sound that set both shores to trembling.

It sounded like a mighty wind, made violent by waves of heat, that strikes the forest and with unchecked force

shatters the branches, hurls them away, and, magni�cent in its roiling cloud of dust, drives on, putting beast and shepherd to �ight.

He freed my eyes and said: ‘Now look   → across the scum of that primeval swamp to where the vapor is most dense and harsh.’

As frogs, before their enemy the snake,   → all scatter through the water till each sits huddled on the bank,

I saw more than a thousand lost souls �ee before one who so lightly passed across the Styx he did not touch the water with his feet.   →

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He cleared the thick air from his face,   → his left hand moving it away, as if that murky air alone had wearied him.

It was clear that he was sent from Heaven,   → and I turned to the master, who signaled me   → to keep silent and bow down before him.

Ah, how full of high disdain he seemed to me! He came up to the gate and with a wand   → he opened it, and there was no resistance.

‘O outcasts of Heaven, race despised,’   → he began on the terrible threshold, ‘whence comes this insolence you harbor in your souls?   →

‘Why do you kick against that will which never can be severed from its purpose, and has so many times increased your pain?

‘What pro�ts it to �ght against the fates? Remember your own Cerberus still bears the wounds of that around his chin and neck.’

Then he turned back along the wretched way   → without a word for us, and he seemed pressed, spurred on by greater cares

than those of the man who stands before him. We turned our steps toward the city, emboldened by his holy words.

We entered without further struggle.   → And I, in my desire to see what such a guarded fortress holds,

as soon as I had entered eagerly surveyed

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the wide plain stretching on all sides, so �lled with bitter torment and despair.

Just as at Arles where the Rhone goes shallow,   → just as at Pola, near Quarnero’s gulf, which hems in Italy and bathes her borders,

the sepulchers make the land uneven, so all around me in this landscape the many tombs held even greater sorrow.

For here the graves were strewn with �ames that made them glow with heat hotter than iron is before it’s worked.

All their covers were propped open and from them issued such dire lamentation it was clear it came from wretches in despair and pain.

And I: ‘Master, who are these souls entombed within these chests and who make known their plight with sighs of sorrow?’

And he: ‘Here, with all their followers,   → are the arch-heretics of every sect. The tombs are far more laden than you think.

‘Like is buried here with like, though their graves burn with unlike heat.’ Then, once he had turned to his right,   → we passed between the torments and the lofty ramparts.

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OUTLINE: INFERNO X

Dante & Virgil among the sepulchres Dante curious about their uncovered inhabitants Virgil: the tombs will be closed after Judgment Day Virgil: here you will see the Epicureans, and Farinata Dante was silent about this wish only to please Virgil Dante’s �rst exchange with Farinata:

Farinata’s recognition of a fellow Tuscan Dante’s fear and Virgil’s rebuke Farinata’s scornful air and Virgil’s encouragement Farinata: from whom are you descended? Dante’s answer and Farinata’s rejoinder Dante’s similar thrust

interruption: Dante’s exchange with Cavalcante: Cavalcante’s abject appearance: where is his son? Dante comes not by his own powers; he is led he knows Cavalcante from his words and situation the father assumes his son is dead and falls back

Dante’s second exchange with Farinata: Farinata now turns Dante’s thrust back on him why are the Florentines merciless to his family? Dante: they do not forget the battle of Montaperti

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Farinata’s plea: it was he who preserved the city

Dante: what do the damned know of future and present? Farinata explains their condition in these respects Dante’s apology to Cavalcante addressed to Farinata Frederick II and Ottaviano degli Ubaldini punished here Virgil reassures Dante about his future coda: resumption of leftward direction in descent

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INFERNO X

Now my master takes a hidden path   → between the city’s ramparts and the torments, and I come close behind him.

‘O lofty virtue,’ I began, ‘who lead me as you will around these impious circles,   → speak to me and satisfy my wishes.

‘The souls that lie within the sepulchres, may they be seen? For all the lids are raised   → and there is no one standing guard.’

And he to me: ‘All will be shut and sealed when the souls return from Jehosaphat   → with the bodies they have left above.

‘Here Epicurus and all his followers, who hold the soul dies with the body,   → have their burial place.

‘But soon your need to have an answer will be satis�ed right here, as will the wish you hide from me.’   →

And I: ‘Good leader, from you I do not keep my heart concealed except to speak few words— as you’ve from time to time advised.’

‘O Tuscan, passing through the city of �re,   → alive, and with such courtesy of speech, if it would please you, stay your steps awhile.

‘Your way of speaking makes it clear   →

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that you are native to that noble city to which I was perhaps too cruel.’   →

This voice came suddenly from one sarcophagus, so that, startled, I drew closer to my leader.

And he to me: ‘Turn back! What are you doing? Look, there Farinata stands erect—   → you can see all of him from the waist up.’   →

Already I had �xed my gaze on his. And he was rising, lifting chest and brow   → as though he held all Hell in utter scorn.

At which my leader: ‘Choose your words with care,’ and his hands, ready, encouraging, thrust me toward him among the tombs.

When I stood at the foot of his tomb he looked at me a moment. Then he asked, almost in disdain: ‘Who were your ancestors?’   →

And I, eager, held nothing back, but told him who they were, at which he barely raised his eyebrows   →

and said: ‘They were most bitter enemies   → to me, my forebears, and my party— not once, but twice, I had to drive them out.’

‘If they were banished,’ I responded, ‘they returned   → from every quarter both the �rst time and the second, a skill that Yours have failed to learn as well.’

Then, beside him, in the open tomb, up came   → a shade, visible to the chin: I think

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he had raised himself upon his knees.

He looked around me as though he wished to see if someone else were with me, and when his hesitant hopes were crushed,

weeping, he said: ‘If you pass through this dark   → prison by virtue of your lofty genius,   → where is my son and why is he not with you?’   →

And I to him: ‘I come not on my own:   → he who stands there waiting leads me through,   → perhaps to one Your Guido held in scorn.’

His words and the manner of his punishment already had revealed his name to me, and thus was my reply so to the point.

Suddenly erect, he cried: ‘What?   → Did you say “he held”? Lives he not still? Does not the sweet light fall upon his eyes?’

When he perceived that I made some delay   → before I answered, he fell backward and showed himself no more.

But the other, that great soul at whose wish   → I had stopped, did not change countenance, nor bend his neck, nor move his chest.

And he, continuing from where he’d paused:   → ‘That they have badly learned this skill torments me more than does this bed.

‘But the face of the lady reigning here   → will be rekindled not �fty times before you too shall know how di�cult a skill that is to learn.

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‘And, so may you return to the sweet world,   → tell me, why are your people, in every edict, so pitiless against my kin?’

Then I to him: ‘The havoc and great slaughter   → that dyed the Arbia red caused them to raise such prayers in our temple.’

He sighed and shook his head, then spoke: ‘I was not alone, nor surely without cause   → would I have acted with the rest.

‘But it was I alone, when all agreed to make an end of Florence, I alone who dared speak out in her defense.’

‘So may Your seed sometime �nd peace,   → pray untie for me this knot,’ I begged him, ‘which has entangled and confused my judgment.

‘From what I hear, it seems you see beforehand that which time will bring, but cannot know what happens in the present.’

‘We see, like those with faulty vision,   → things at a distance,’ he replied. ‘That much, for us, the mighty Ruler’s light still shines.

‘When things draw near or happen now, our minds are useless. Without the words of others we can know nothing of your human state.

‘Thus it follows that all our knowledge will perish at the very moment the portals of the future close.’

Then, remorseful for my fault, I said:   →

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‘Will You tell him who fell back down his son is still among the living?

‘And let him know, if I was slow to answer, it was because I was preoccupied with doubts You have resolved for me.’

And now my master summoned me, so that I begged the spirit to reveal, at once, who else was down there with him.

His answer was: ‘More than a thousand lie here with me: both the second Frederick   → and the Cardinal. Of the rest I do not speak.’   →

With that he dropped from sight. I turned my steps to the venerable poet, mulling those words that seemed to augur ill.   →

He started out, and then, as we were going, asked: ‘Why are you so bewildered?’   → And I answered fully what he asked.

‘Keep in mind what you have heard against you, but also now give heed to this,’ the sage insisted—and he raised one �nger.

‘When you shall stand before the radiance   → of her whose fair eyes see and understand, from her you’ll learn the journey of your life.’

Then he turned his footsteps to the left.   → Leaving the wall, we headed toward the center along a path that leads into a pit. Its stench o�ended even at that height.

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OUTLINE: INFERNO XI

a second group of heretics: Pope Anastasius the stench of sin from lower hell Virgil’s description of the sins of lower hell: malice resulting in use of violence or fraud violence (Circle 7) vs. neighbor, self, or God fraud (Circle 8) vs. others treachery, a worse form of fraud (Circle 9) Dante’s question: why are not the inhabitants of Circles 2–5 punished in Dis? Virgil’s answer: incontinence less o�ensive to God than malice and mad brutishness Dante still puzzled by Virgil’s words about usury Virgil on the sin against art, “God’s grandchild” coda: Virgil announces it is time to go (ca. 4 am)

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INFERNO XI

At the brink of a high bank formed by broken boulders in a circle we stopped above a still more grievous throng.   →

Here, the unbearable foul stench belched from that bottomless abyss made us draw back behind the slab   →

of an imposing tomb, on which I saw inscribed the words: ‘I hold Pope Anastasius:   → Photinus drew him from the right and proper path.’

‘We must delay descending so our sense,   → inured to that vile stench, no longer heeds it.’

So spoke the master. I replied: ‘I know you’ll �nd a useful way to pass this time.’ And he: ‘You’ll see that is my plan.’

‘My son,’ he then began, ‘beneath these rocks there are three circles, smaller, one below the other, but otherwise like those you leave behind.

‘All these are �lled with souls condemned. So that the sight alone may later be enough, know how and why they are con�ned this way.

‘Every evil deed despised in Heaven   → has as its end injustice. Each such end harms someone else through either force or fraud.

‘But since the vice of fraud is man’s alone,

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it more displeases God, and thus the fraudulent are lower down, assailed by greater pain.

‘The �rst circle holds the violent   → but is divided and constructed in three rings, since violence takes three di�erent forms.

‘Violence may be aimed at God, oneself, or at one’s neighbor—thus against all three or their possessions—as I shall now explain.

‘Violent death and grievous wounds may be in�icted   → upon a neighbor or, upon his goods, pillage, arson, and violent theft.

‘And so murderers and everyone who wounds unjustly, spoilers and plunderers—the �rst ring punishes all these in separate groups.

‘A man may lay injurious hands upon himself   → or on his goods, and for that reason in the second ring must he repent in vain

‘who robs himself of the world above or gambles away and wastes his substance, lamenting when he should rejoice.

‘Violence may be committed against God   → when we deny and curse Him in our hearts, or when we scorn nature and her bounty.

‘And so the smallest ring stamps with its seal both Sodom and Cahors and those who scorn Him with their hearts and tongues.

‘Fraud gnaws at every conscience,   → whether used on him who trusted

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or on one who lacked such faith.

‘Fraud against the latter only severs the bond of love that nature makes. Thus in the second circle nest

‘hypocrisy, �atteries, and sorcerers; lies, theft, and simony; panders, barrators, and all such �lth.

‘Fraud against the trusting fails to heed   → not only natural love but the added bond of faith, which forms a special kind of trust.

‘Therefore, in the tightest circle, the center of the universe and seat of Dis, all traitors are consumed eternally.’

And I: ‘Master, your account is clear   → and clearly designates the nature of this abyss and its inhabitants.

‘But tell me, those spirits in the viscous marsh, those the wind drives, those the rain beats down on, those clashing with such bitter tongues,

‘why are they not punished inside the �ery city if God’s anger is upon them? And if not, why are they so a�icted?’

And he: ‘Not often do your wits stray   → far a�eld, as they do now—or is your mind bent on pursuing other thoughts?

‘Do you not recall the words your Ethics uses to expound the three dispositions Heaven opposes,

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‘incontinence, malice, and mad brutishness, and how incontinence o�ends God less and incurs a lesser blame?

‘If you consider well this judgment and consider who they are that su�er punishment above, outside the wall,

‘you’ll understand why they are set apart from these wicked spirits and why God’s vengeance smites them with a lesser wrath.’

‘O sun, you who heal all troubled sight,   → you so content me by resolving doubts it pleases me no less to question than to know.

‘But go back a little way,’ I said, ‘to where you told me usury o�ends God’s goodness, and untie that knot for me.’

‘Philosophy, for one who understands her,   → observes,’ he said, ‘and not in one place only, how nature takes her course

‘from heavenly intellect and its operation. And, if you study well your Physics, you will �nd, after not too many pages,

‘that human toil, as far as it is able, follows nature, as the pupil does his master, so that it is God’s grandchild, as it were.

‘By toil and nature, if you remember Genesis, near the beginning, it is man’s lot to earn his bread and prosper.

‘The usurer, who takes another path,

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scorns nature in herself and in her follower, and elsewhere sets his hopes.

‘But follow me now, for it is time to go.   → The Fishes are �ickering at the horizon and all the Wain lies over Caurus. And here, a short way o�, is the descent.’

1–3   

4–10    11–15    16–21    22–25    26–30    31–45    46–48    49–51    52–75   

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OUTLINE: INFERNO XII

retrospect (the edge of the precipice at XI.1) and monstrous prospect (the Minotaur) simile: the fallen rock along the Adige near Trent the wrath of the Minotaur Virgil to the Minotaur: Dante is not Theseus simile: bull’s movements after receiving mortal blow the Minotaur’s fury allows a quick descent Virgil’s remarks on the cause of the fallen rock the river of blood (Phlegethon) the poet’s apostrophe of covetousness and wrath hellscape with centaurs: Nessus, Chiron, Pholus; Nessus threatens and Virgil parries Chiron’s surprise that Dante moves what he touches Virgil explains his mission and asks for help Chiron assigns Nessus the task of protecting them following Nessus, Dante and Virgil observe tyrants: Alexander, Dionysius, Ezzelino, Opizzo Virgil’s order to Dante: let Nessus take you Nessus stops; Dante sees Guy de Montfort and others less deeply immersed in the river; they cross Nessus: in the shallower part of the river are Attila, Pyrrhus, Sextus, the two Riniers coda: Nessus crosses back over the river

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INFERNO XII

Steep was the cli� we had to clamber down, rocky and steep, but—even worse—it held a sight that every eye would shun.

As on the rockslide that still marks the �ank   → of the Àdige, this side of Trent, whether by earthquake or erosion at the base,

from the mountain-top they slid away from, the shattered boulders strew the precipice and thus give footing to one coming down—

just so was the descent down that ravine. And at the chasm’s jagged edge was sprawled the infamy of Crete,   →

conceived in that false cow. When he caught sight of us, he gnawed himself like someone ruled by wrath.

My sage cried out to him: ‘You think,   → perhaps, this is the Duke of Athens, who in the world above put you to death.

‘Get away, you beast, for this man does not come tutored by your sister, he comes to view your punishments.’

Like the bull that breaks its tether   → just as it receives the mortal blow and cannot run, but lunges here and there,

so raged the Minotaur. My artful guide

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called out: ‘Run to the passage: hurry down while he is in his fury.’

And so we made our way down the steep landslide   → on scree that often shifted under my feet with unexpected weight.

I went on lost in thought. And he said: ‘Perhaps you’re wondering about this rockslide   → guarded by that bestial rage I quelled just now.   →

‘I want you to know, the other time   → I came down into nether Hell this rock had not yet fallen.

‘But surely, if memory does not fail, it was just before He came who carried o� from Dis the great spoil of the highest circle   →

‘when the deep and foul abyss shook on every side,   → so that I thought the universe felt love, by which, as some believe,

‘the world has many times been turned to chaos. And at that moment this ancient rock, here and elsewhere, fell broken into pieces.

‘But �x your eyes below, for we draw near the river of blood that scalds those who by violence do injury to others.’   →

O blind covetousness, insensate wrath,   → which in this brief life goad us on and then, in the eternal, steep us in such misery!

I saw a broad moat curving in its arc that seemed to circle all the plain,

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just as my guide had said.

Between the edge of moat and precipice ran centaurs in a �le and armed with arrows,   → as when they went o� hunting in our world.

They saw us coming, stopped, and three   → departed from the troop with bows and shafts they had selected with great care.

One cried from afar: ‘To what torment do you come, you two approaching down the slope? Tell us from there. If not, I draw my bow.’

My master said: ‘We will give our answer   → to Chiron once we have come closer. Your will was always hasty, to your hurt.’

Then he nudged me, saying: ‘That is Nessus,   → who died for lovely Deianira and fashioned of himself his own revenge.

‘The middle one, his gaze �xed on his chest,   → is the great Chiron, he who raised Achilles. The other one is Pholus, who was so �lled with wrath.   →

‘Around the moat they go in thousands, shooting arrows at any soul that rises higher from the blood than guilt allows.’   →

As we drew near those swift wild beasts,   → Chiron took an arrow and with its nock pulled back his beard along his jaw.

When he had uncovered his enormous mouth he said to his companions: ‘Have you observed the one behind dislodges what he touches?

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‘That is not what the feet of dead men do.’ And my good leader, now at Chiron’s breast, where his two natures join, replied:

‘He is indeed alive, and so alone, it is my task to show him this dark valley. Necessity compels us, not delight.

‘One brie�y left her song of hallelujah   → and came to charge me with this novel task. He is no robber, nor am I a thief.

‘But, by that power by which I move my steps on this wild road, lend us a guide, one of your band to whom we may stay close,   →

‘one who will show us to the ford and carry this man over on his back, for he is not a spirit that can �y through air.’

Chiron bent his torso to the right, then said   → to Nessus: ‘Go back and guide them. If you meet another troop, have it give way.’

And with this trusty escort we went on, skirting the edge of the vermilion boil from which the boiled cried out with piercing shrieks.

There I saw some sunken to the eyebrows, and the great centaur said: ‘They are tyrants   → who took to blood and plunder.

‘Here they lament their ruthless crimes.   → Here is Alexander, here cruel Dionysius, who gave to Sicily its years of woe.

‘And that brow with such jet-black hair

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is Ezzelino, while the other blond one there is Obizzo d’Este, who was indeed

‘slain by his stepson in the world above.’ Then I turned to the poet, and he said: ‘Now let Nessus be your guide and I will follow.’   →

A little farther on the centaur stopped above a crowd whose heads, down to their necks,   → seemed to issue from that boiling stream.

He pointed out a shade apart, alone: ‘In God’s bosom that one clove in two the heart that on the Thames still drips with blood.’

Then I saw some who had their heads,   → even their whole chests, out of the river, and of these I recognized a number,

as the blood became even more shallow   → until it cooked nothing but their feet. And here was our place to cross the moat.   →

‘Just as on this side you can see   → the boiling stream always diminishing,’ said the centaur, ‘so, I’ll have you know,

‘on the other side the bottom falls away until it plumbs the depths where tyranny must groan.

‘There divine justice stings Attila,   → who was a scourge on earth, and Pyrrhus, and Sextus, and eternally wrings

‘tears, loosed by the boiling,   → from Rinier of Corneto and Rinier Pazzo,

139 who on the highways made such strife.’ Then he turned back and crossed the ford again.   →

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OUTLINE: INFERNO XIII

retrospect (Nessus) and prospect (the wood) description of the wood the Harpies Virgil urges Dante to be closely attentive Dante’s puzzlement and Virgil’s instruction the complaint of Pier delle Vigne simile: Pier’s bloody words; Dante’s reaction Virgil’s apology and captatio, addressed to Pier Pier’s “oration”:

capturing the goodwill of his audience narrative of the events at issue peroration, making his climactic point petition, seeking the consent of his audience

Virgil urges Dante to question Pier further; he cannot, and, too moved, asks Virgil to do so instead Virgil’s two questions concern the suicides’ condition Pier’s responses:

(1) how a dead soul becomes a thornbush (2) how it will bring back its body after Judgment

the two poets continue to regard Pier simile: concealed hunter hearing prey approaching the spendthrifts (Arcolano, Jacomo) pursued by dogs the nameless Florentine suicide Virgil’s question to him the suicide’s answering “oration”

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INFERNO XIII

Nessus had not yet reached the other side   → when we made our way into a forest not marked by any path.

No green leaves, but those of dusky hue—   → not a straight branch, but knotted and contorted— no fruit of any kind, but poisonous thorns.

No rougher, denser thickets make a refuge for the wild beasts that hate tilled lands between the Cècina and Corneto.

Here the �lthy Harpies nest,   → who drove the Trojans from the Strophades with doleful prophecies of woe to come.

They have broad wings, human necks and faces, taloned feet, and feathers on their bulging bellies. Their wailing �lls the eerie trees.

And my good master then began to speak: ‘Before you go in deeper you should know, you are, and will be, in the second ring

‘until you reach the dreadful sand. Look well— you will see things that, in my telling,   → would seem to strip my words of truth.’

Lamentations I heard on every side but I saw no one who might be crying out so that, confused, I stopped.   →

I think he thought that I thought   →

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all these voices in among the branches came from people hiding there.

And so the master said: ‘If you break o� a twig among these brambles, your present thoughts will be cut short.’

Then I stretched out my hand   → and plucked a twig from a tall thorn-bush, and its stem cried out: ‘Why do you break me?’

When it ran dark with blood it cried again: ‘Why do you tear me? Are you completely without pity?

‘We once were men and now are turned to thorns. Your hand might well have been more merciful had we been souls of snakes.’

As from a green log, burning at one end,   → that blisters and hisses at the other with the rush of sap and air,

so from the broken splinter oozed blood and words together, and I let drop the twig and stood like one afraid.

‘Could he have believed it otherwise,   → O wounded soul,’ my sage spoke up, ‘what he has seen only in my verses,

‘he would not have raised his hand against you. But your plight, being incredible, made me goad him to this deed that weighs on me.

‘Now tell him who you were, so that, by way   → of recompense, he may revive your fame

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up in the world, where he’s permitted to return.’

And the stem said: ‘With your pleasing words   → you so allure me I cannot keep silent. May it not o�end if I am now enticed to speak.

‘I am the one who held both keys   → to Frederick’s heart, and I could turn them, locking and unlocking, so discreetly

‘I kept his secrets safe from almost everyone. So faithful was I to that glorious o�ce that �rst I lost my sleep and then my life.

‘The slut who never took her whoring eyes   → from Caesar’s household, the common bane and special vice of courts,

‘in�amed all minds against me. And they, in�amed, did so in�ame Augustus   → that welcome honors turned to dismal woe.

‘My mind, in scornful temper,   → hoping by dying to escape from scorn, made me, though just, against myself unjust.

‘By this tree’s new-sprung roots I give my oath:   → not once did I break faith with my true lord, a man so worthy of honor.

‘If one of you goes back into the world, let him restore my reputation, which, helpless, lies beneath the blow that envy dealt it.’

The poet waited, then he said to me: ‘Since he is silent now do not waste time but speak if you would ask him more.’

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And I replied: ‘Please question him   → about the things you think I need to know. For I cannot, such pity �lls my heart.’

Thus he began again: ‘So that this man may, with ready will, do as your words entreat, may it please you, imprisoned spirit,

‘to tell us further how the souls are bound inside such gnarled wood, and tell us, if you can, if from such limbs one ever is set free.’

Then the tree forced out harsh breath, and soon that wind was turned into a voice: ‘My answer shall be brief.

‘When the ferocious soul deserts the body after it has wrenched up its own roots, Minos condemns it to the seventh gulch.

‘It falls into the forest, in a spot not chosen, but �ung by fortune, helter-skelter, it fastens like a seed.

‘It spreads into a shoot, then a wild thicket. The Harpies, feeding on its leaves, give pain and to that pain a mouth.

‘We will come to claim our cast-o� bodies like the others. But it would not be just if we again put on the �esh we robbed from our own souls.

‘Here shall we drag it, and in this dismal wood our bodies will be hung, each one upon the thorn-bush of its painful shade.’

Our attention was still �xed upon the tree,   →

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thinking it had more to tell us, when we were startled by a noise,

as a man, when he hears the dogs, and branches snapping, knows the boar and hunters near.

Now, from the left, two souls came running, naked and torn, and so intent on �ight they broke straight through the tangled thicket.

The one in front cried: ‘Come, come quickly, death!’ And the other, who thought his own pace slow: ‘Lano, your legs were not so nimble

‘at the tournament near the Toppo.’ Then, almost out of breath, he pressed himself into a single tangle with a bush.

Behind them now the woods were thick with bitches, black and ravenous and swift as hounds loosed from the leash.

On him who had hidden in the tangle they set their teeth, tore him to pieces, and carried o� those miserable limbs.

And then my leader took me by the hand.   → He led me to the bush, which wept in vain lament from bleeding wounds.

‘O Jacopo da Sant’ Andrea,’ it said, ‘what use was it to make a screen of me? Why must I su�er for your guilty life?’

When the master stopped beside it, he said: ‘Who were you, that through so many wounds

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pour out with blood your doleful words?’

And he to us: ‘O souls who have arrived   → to see the shameless carnage that has torn from me my leaves,

‘gather them here at the foot of this wretched bush. I was of the city that traded patrons— Mars for John the Baptist. On that account

‘Mars with his craft will make her grieve forever. And were it not that at the crossing of the Arno some vestige of him still remains,

‘those citizens who afterwards rebuilt it upon the ashes that Attila left behind would have done their work in vain. I made my house into my gallows.’

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OUTLINE: INFERNO XIV

retrospect: the Florentine suicide the border separating the second and third rings the hellscape of violence against God: barren sand apostrophe: God’s just vengeance three classes of sins punished in the third ring the hellscape: �akes of �re simile: �ames from sky on Alexander’s army in India the hands of the sinners in their eternal “dance” Dante’s impertinent question to Virgil Capaneus’s monologue Virgil’s rebuke of Capaneus Virgil’s “commentary” to Dante marker of separation between two halves of canto the river of blood simile: the river Bulicame the stone margins of the river will a�ord them passage Virgil stresses the importance of this river Dante’s heightened curiosity Virgil on the Old Man of Crete:

Mount Ida, paradisal past and deserted present the old man within the mountain

tears of the veglio form the four rivers of hell the stream: Dante’s question and Virgil’s answer Phlegethon and Lethe: Dante’s questions answered coda: Virgil’s advice that Dante stick to the path

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INFERNO XIV

Urged by the love I bore my place of birth,   → I gathered up the scattered leaves and gave them back to him, who had by this time spent his breath.

Then we came to the boundary that divides   → the second circling from the third. And here the dreadful work of justice is revealed.

To tell how strange the new place was,   → I say we reached a barren plain that lets no plant set root into its soil.

The gloomy forest rings it like a garland and is in turn encircled by the moat. Here, at the very edge, we stayed our steps

at an expanse of deep and arid sand, much like the sand pressed long ago   → beneath the feet of Cato.

O vengeance of God, how much should you be feared by all who read what now I saw revealed before my eyes!

I saw many a herd of naked souls,   → all crying out in equal misery, though each seemed subject to a di�erent law:

some lay face up upon the ground, some sat, their bodies hunched, and others roamed about in constant motion.

Most numerous were those who roamed about, those lying there in torment fewer,

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though theirs the tongues crying out the most.

Above the stretching sand, in slow descent,   → broad �akes of �re showered down as snow falls in the hills on windless days.   →

If Alexander, on India’s torrid plains,   → seeing undiminished �akes of �re fall upon the ground and on his troops,

ordered his men to trample down the soil so that the �aming shower was put out before the �re caught and spread,

here untrammeled the eternal �ames came down, and the sand took �re like tinder under �int, doubling the torment.

Ever without repose was the rude dance   → of wretched hands, now here, now there, slapping at each new scorching cinder.

I began: ‘Master, you who overcome all things—   → all but the obstinate �ends who sallied forth against us at the threshold of the gate,

‘who is that hero who seems to scorn the �re   → and lies there grim and scowling so that the rain seems not to torture him?’

And he himself, who had discerned   → that I had asked my guide about him, cried: ‘What I was alive, I am in death.   →

‘Let Jove wear out his blacksmith from whom in rage he seized the shining bolt he struck me with on that my �nal day.

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‘And though he weary all the others, one by one, at their black forge in Mongibello, shouting “Help, good Vulcan, help!”

‘as once he did on the battle�eld of Phlegra, and though he hurl his shafts at me with all his might, he still would have no joy in his revenge.’

Then my leader spoke with a vehemence   → I had not heard him use before: ‘O, Capaneus, because your pride remains unquenched

‘you su�er greater punishment. In your own anger lies your agony, a �tting torment for your rage.’

Then, with a calmer look, he said to me: ‘He was among the seven kings who once laid siege to Thebes and held—and he still seems to hold—   →

‘God in disdain and to esteem Him lightly. But his own spiteful ranting, as I made clear, most �ttingly adorns his breast.

‘Now come along behind me, and be sure you do not set your feet upon the burning sand but keep your steps close to the forest’s edge.’

In silence we went on until we came   → to where a little stream spurts from the wood. The redness of it makes me shudder still.

As from the Bulicame �ows out a rivulet the sinful women then divide among them, so this ran down across the sand.

Its bed and both its banks were made of stone,

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as was the boundary on either side: I saw our passage lay that way.

‘In all else I have shown you since we entered through the gate whose threshold is denied to none,

‘your eyes have yet seen nothing of such note as is this stream before us: its vapor quenches every �ame above it.’

These were my leader’s words. Hearing them, I asked him to supply the food for which he had provoked the appetite.

‘In the middle of the sea there lies a land,’   →   → he said, ‘a wasteland known as Crete. Under its king the world was innocent.

‘A mountain rises there, once glad with leaves and streams, called Ida. Now it is barren like a thing outworn.

‘Once Rhea chose it as the trusted cradle for her child, and there, the better to conceal him when he cried, she had her people raise an uproar.

‘Within the mountain stands a huge old man.   → He keeps his back turned on Damietta, gazing on Rome as in his mirror.

‘His head is fashioned of �ne gold, his breast and arms of purest silver, then to the fork he’s made of brass,

‘and from there down he is all iron, but for his right foot of baked clay,

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and he rests more on this than on the other.

‘Every part except the gold is rent   → by a crack that drips with tears, which, running down, collect to force a passage through that cavern,

‘taking their course from rock to rock into this depth,   → where they form Acheron, Styx, and Phlegethon, then, going down this narrow channel,

‘down to where there is no more descent, they form Cocytus: what kind of pond that is you shall see in time—here I say no more.’

Then I asked: ‘If that stream �ows down from our world, why do we see it only at this boundary?’

And he answered: ‘You know this place is round, and though you have come far, descending toward the bottom on the left,

‘you have not come full circle. Should some new thing confront us, it need not bring such wonder to your face.’

And I again: ‘Master, where are Phlegethon and Lethe?   → About the one you’re silent, and you say the other is made into a river by this rain.’

‘In all your questions you do please me,’ he replied, ‘but the red and seething water might well have answered one of those you ask.

‘Lethe you shall see: not in this abyss but where the spirits go to cleanse themselves once their repented guilt has been removed.’

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And then: ‘Now it is time to leave this forest.   → See you stay close behind me. The borders, which are not on �re, form a path and over both of them all �ames are quenched.’

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OUTLINE: INFERNO XV

Dante and Virgil continue along the stream double simile: earthworks in Flanders and Padua the troop of souls peering at Dante and Virgil Dante and Brunetto Latini recognize one another they exchange courtesies and proceed together Brunetto’s questions (what brings you? who leads you?) Dante’s responses (my lost state; this guide) Brunetto: Dante’s promising career and political adversaries Brunetto’s promise of Dante’s escape and warning to those adversaries Dante declares his debt to Brunetto this is the second such prophecy he has heard Dante says he is �rm against Fortune’s turnings Virgil advises Dante to listen closely Dante continues, asking Brunetto of his companions Brunetto: famous men of letters (Priscian, Francesco d’Accorso, Andrea de’ Mozzi) Brunetto must leave: he must not be with those who come Brunetto, departing, commends his Tesoro to Dante simile: Brunetto as winner in the race at Verona

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INFERNO XV

Now one of the stony borders bears us on   → and vapors from the stream arise as mist protecting banks and water from the �ames.

As the Flemings between Wissant and Bruges,   → fearing the tide that rushes in upon them, erect a bulwark to repel the sea,

and as the Paduans build dikes along the Brenta, to protect their towns and castles before the heat brings �oods to Carentana—

in just that way these banks were formed, except the architect—whoever he was— had made them not as lofty nor as thick.

By now we were so distant from the wood   → that I could not have made it out even had I turned in its direction.

Here we met a troop of souls coming up along the bank, and each one gazed at us as men at dusk will sometimes do,

eyeing one another under the new moon. They peered at us with knitted brows like an old tailor at his needle’s eye.

Thus scrutinized by such a company, I was known to one of them who caught me   → by the hem and then cried out, ‘What a wonder!’

And while he held his arm outstretched to me,

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I �xed my eyes on his scorched face until beneath the charred dis�gurement

I could discern the features that I knew   → and, lowering my hand toward his face, asked: ‘Are You here, Ser Brunetto?’

And he: ‘O my son, let it not displease you if Brunetto Latini for a while turns back with you and lets the troop go on.’

I said to him: ‘With all my heart, I pray You, and if You would have me sit with You, I will, if he who leads me through allows.’

‘O son,’ he said, ‘whoever of this �ock stops even for an instant has to lie a hundred years, unable to fend o� the �re when it strikes.

‘Therefore, go on. I shall follow at your hem and later will rejoin my band, who go lamenting their eternal pain.’

I did not dare to leave the higher path to walk the lower with him, but I kept my head bowed, like one who walks in reverence.

He began: ‘What chance or fate is it that brings you here before your �nal hour, and who is this that shows the way?’   →

‘In the sunlit life above,’ I answered,    ‘in a valley there, I lost my way   → before I reached the zenith of my days.

‘Only yesterday morning did I leave it, but had turned back when he appeared,

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and now along this road he leads me home.’   →

And he to me: ‘By following your star   → you cannot fail to reach a glorious port, if I saw clearly in the happy life.

‘Had I not died too soon,   → seeing that Heaven so favors you, I would have lent you comfort in your work.

‘But that malignant, thankless rabble   → that came down from Fiesole long ago and still smacks of the mountain and the rock

‘rightly shall become, because of your good deeds, your enemy: among the bitter sorbs it is not �t the sweet �g come to fruit.

‘The world has long believed them to be blind, a people greedy, envious and proud. Be sure you stay untainted by their ways.

‘Your destiny reserves for you such honor both parties shall be hungry to devour you, but the grass shall be far from the goat.

‘Let the Fiesolan beasts make forage of themselves but spare the plant, if on their dung-heap any still springs up,

‘the plant in which lives on the holy seed of those few Romans who remained when it became the home of so much malice.’

‘If all my prayers were answered,’ I said to him, ‘You would not yet be banished from mankind.

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‘For I remember well and now lament the cherished, kind, paternal image of You   → when, there in the world, from time to time,

‘You taught me how man makes himself immortal. And how much gratitude I owe for that my tongue, while I still live, must give report.

‘What You tell of my future I record   → and keep for glossing, along with other texts, by a lady of discernment, should I reach her.

‘This much I would have You know:   → as long as conscience does not chide, I am prepared for Fortune as she wills.

‘Such prophecy is not unknown to me. Let Fortune spin her wheel just as she pleases,   → and let the loutish peasant ply his hoe.’

At that I saw the right side of my master’s face turned back in my direction. And he said: ‘He listens well who takes in what he hears.’   →

Nonetheless, I go on speaking with ser Brunetto, asking who, of his companions, are most eminent, most worthy to be known.

And he: “Some of them it is good to know. Others it is better not to mention, for the time would be too short for so much talk.

‘In sum, note that all of them were clerics   → or great and famous scholars, all befouled in the world above by a single sin.

‘Priscian goes with that wretched crowd,

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and Francesco d’Accorso too. And, had you had a hankering for such �lth, you might have seen

‘the one transferred by the Servant of Servants from the Arno to the Bacchiglione, where he left his sin-stretched sinews.

‘I would say more, but I cannot stay, cannot continue talking, for over there I see new smoke rising from the sand.

‘People are coming with whom I must not be.   → Let my Treasure, in which I still live on,   → be in your mind—I ask for nothing more.’

After he turned back he seemed like one   → who races for the green cloth on the plain beyond Verona. And he looked more the winner than the one who trails the �eld.

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OUTLINE: INFERNO XVI

the sound of the waterfall at the border ahead: bees three shades see that Dante is Florentine and stop him their wounds: to remember them pains the poet even now Virgil’s insistence that these are worthy of courtesy the three make a wheel of themselves simile: wrestlers one of them, admitting his sins, asks who Dante is; he identi�es Guido Guerra, Tegghiaio Aldobrandi, and himself (Iacopo Rusticucci) Dante’s reaction is to want to embrace them Dante’s a�ection for them; he is on his way to heaven Rusticucci: do valor and courtesy still abide in Florence, or is Guglielmo Borsiere right? Dante: he is right; their stunned reaction the three: Dante a truth-teller; they ask him to speak of them once he returns to earth they withdraw; Dante and Virgil continue on the roaring waterfall simile: the Acquacheta Dante’s cord and Virgil’s challenge Dante’s thought and Virgil’s “reading” of his mind Dante’s oath to his readers (third address in the poem) and the �gure (Geryon) rising from the depths

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INFERNO XVI

I had arrived where we could hear the distant roar   → of water falling to the lower circle, like the rumbling hum of bees around a hive,

when three shades at a run broke from a passing crowd under that rain of bitter torment.

Together they came toward us, each one calling: ‘Stop, you, who by your garb appear to be a man from our degenerate city.’

Oh, what sores I noticed on their limbs, both old and new ones, branded by the �ames! It pains me still, when I remember them.

My teacher was attentive to their cries, then turned his face to me and said: ‘Now wait: to these one must show courtesy.   →

‘And were it not for the �re that the nature of this place draws down, I would say that haste suits you far more than it does them.’

When we stopped, they took up again   → their old refrain but, once they reached us, all three had joined into a single wheel.

As combatants, oiled and naked, are wont to do, watching for their hold and their advantage, before the exchange of thrusts and blows,

wheeling, each �xed his eyes on me,

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so that their feet moved forward while their necks were straining back.

One began: ‘If the squalor of this shifting sand   → and our blackened, hairless faces put us and our petitions in contempt,

‘let our fame prevail on you to tell us who you are, who fearless move on living feet through Hell.

‘He in whose steps you see me tread, though he go naked, peeled hairless by the �re, was of a higher rank than you imagine.

‘He was grandson of the good Gualdrada. Guido Guerra was his name. In his life he did much with good sense, much with the sword.

‘This other, squinching sand behind me, is Tegghiaio Aldobrandi, whose voice deserved a better welcome in the world.

‘And I, who am put to torment with them, was Jacopo Rusticucci. It was my bestial wife, more than all else, who brought me to this pass.’

Had I been sheltered from the �re   → I would have thrown myself among them, and I believe my teacher would have let me.

But because I would have burned and baked, fright overcame the good intentions that made me hunger to embrace them.

Then I began: ‘Not contempt, but sadness, �xed your condition in my heart so deep—

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it will be long before it leaves me—

‘the moment that my master’s words made me consider that such worthy men as you were coming near.

‘I am of your city. How many times   → I’ve heard your deeds, your honored names resound! And I, too, spoke your names with a�ection.

‘I leave bitterness behind for the sweet fruits promised by my truthful leader. But �rst I must go down into the very core.’

‘That your spirit long may guide   → your limbs,’ he now added, ‘and your renown shine after you,

‘tell us if valor and courtesy still live there in our city, as once they used to do, or have they utterly forsaken her?

‘Guglielmo Borsiere, grieving with us here so short a time, goes yonder with our company and makes us worry with his words.’

‘The new crowd with their sudden pro�ts   → have begot in you, Florence, such excess and arrogance that you already weep.’

This, my face uplifted, I cried out. And the three,   → taking it for answer, looked at one another as men do when they face the truth.

‘If at other times it costs so little for you to give clear answers,’ they replied in turn, ‘happy are you to speak so freely.

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‘Therefore, so may you escape from these dark regions   → to see again the beauty of the stars, when you shall rejoice in saying “I was there,”

‘see that you speak of us to others.’ Then they broke their circle and as they �ed their nimble legs seemed wings.

‘Amen’ could not have been said as quickly   → as they vanished. And then my master thought it time to leave.

I followed him, and we had not gone far   → before the roar of water was so close we hardly could have heard each other speak.

As the river that is the �rst to hold   → its course from Monte Viso eastward on the left slope of the Apennines,

and up there is called the Acquacheta, before it pours into its lower bed and, having lost that name at Forlì,

reverberates above San Benedetto dell’Alpe, falling in one cataract where there might well have been a thousand,

so, down from a precipitous bank, the �ood of that dark water coming down resounded in our ears and almost stunned us.

I had a cord around my waist   → with which I once had meant to take the leopard with the painted pelt.

After I had undone it,   →

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as my leader had commanded, I gave it to him coiled and knotted.

Then, swinging round on his right side, he �ung it out some distance from the edge, down into the depth of that abyss.

‘Surely,’ I said to myself, ‘something new   → and strange will answer this strange signal the master follows with his eye.’

Ah, how cautious we should be with those who do not see our actions only, but with their wisdom peer into our thoughts!

He said to me: ‘Soon what I expect and your mind only dreams of will appear. Soon it shall be right before your eyes.’

To a truth that bears the face of falsehood   → a man should seal his lips if he is able, for it might shame him, through no fault of his,

but here I can’t be silent. And by the strains of this Comedy—so may they soon succeed in �nding favor—I swear to you, reader,

that I saw come swimming up through that dense and murky air a shape to cause amazement in the stoutest heart,

a shape most like a man’s who, having plunged   → to loose the anchor caught fast in a reef or something other hidden in the sea, now rises, reaching upward and drawing in his feet.

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OUTLINE: INFERNO XVII

Virgil indicates the presence of Geryon Virgil’s invitation and Geryon’s “docking” description of Geryon similes: Geryon compared to boat, beaver, scorpion at the Circle’s rim the travelers �nd sinners Virgil will parley while Dante visits these Dante moves toward them without his guide the weeping eyes and busy hands of the usurers simile: dogs scratching themselves in summertime usurers not recognizable except from their pouches �ve are identi�ed, three by their insignia Virgil, mounted on Geryon, reassures Dante simile: man with quartan fever at the sight of shade Dante’s fear displaced by his own resultant shame Dante mounts Geryon; Virgil’s ministrations similes: boat and eel (for Geryon’s departure) Dante’s fear: Phaeton and Icarus the descent and Dante’s perceptions of it simile: sullen falcon (for Geryon’s arrival) Geryon, disburdened, �ies up and away

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INFERNO XVII

‘Behold the beast with pointed tail, that leaps   → past mountains, shatters walls and weapons! Behold the one whose stench a�icts the world!’

was how my guide began. Then he signaled to the beast to come ashore close to the border of our stony pathway.

And that foul e�gy of fraud came forward, beached its head and chest but did not draw its tail up on the bank.

It had the features of a righteous man,   → benevolent in countenance, but all the rest of it was serpent.

It had forepaws, hairy to the armpits, and back and chest and both its �anks   → were painted and inscribed with rings and curlicues.

So many vivid colors Turk or Tartar never wove in warp and woof or in embroidery on top, nor were such colors patterned on Arachne’s loom.

As sometimes barges lie ashore,   → partly in water, partly on the land, and as among the guzzling Germans

the beaver sets itself to catch its prey, so lay this worst of brutes upon the stony rim that makes a boundary for the sandy soil.

Its length of tail lashed in the void,

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twisting up its forked, envenomed tip, armed like a scorpion’s tail.

My leader said: ‘Now we must change   → direction for a moment till we reach that evil beast stretched out down there.’

We descended, therefore, to our right, and took ten steps along the edge to keep our distance from the sand and �ames.

And, when we reached the beast, I see some people sitting on the sand a short way o�, near where it falls away.

Then the master said to me: ‘So that nothing   → in this circle escape your understanding, go over and examine their condition.

‘Let your talk be brief. While you are gone, I’ll ask the beast to lend us its strong shoulders.’

Thus, on the seventh circle’s edge, still farther out, I went alone to where the downcast souls were seated.   →

Their grief came bursting from their eyes. With restless hands they sought relief, now from the �ame and now from burning sand.

Not otherwise do dogs in summer gnaw and scratch, now with muzzle, now with paw, when �ies or �eas or horse�ies bite them.

Although I searched some of the faces of those on whom the painful �re descends,

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I knew not one, but I could see

the pouches hanging from their necks   → were di�erent in color, each with its coat of arms. On these they seemed to feast their eyes.

And when I came among them and looked closer, on a yellow purse I could make out   → a lion’s countenance and form in blue.

Then, farther on, my wandering gaze made out another crest, blood-red,   → marked by a goose more white than butter.

And one, who had a pregnant sow, in azure,   → embossed on his white wallet, said to me: ‘What are you doing down here in this ditch?

‘Now go—but wait, since you’re still alive,   → know that my neighbor Vitaliano shall soon be seated to my left.

‘Among these Florentines, I come from Padua. Many a time they deafen me with shouting: “May the sovereign knight come soon,   →

‘ “who brings the pouch with three goats on it!” ’ Then he twisted his mouth and stuck out his tongue   → like an ox that licks its nose.

And I, fearing my delay might anger him who had warned me to make my stay brief, turned back and left those weary souls.

I found my leader mounted on the shoulders of the savage beast. He said to me: ‘Now be strong and resolute.

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‘From here on we descend such stairs as these.   → You mount in front and I will take the middle so that the tail may do no harm.’

As a man in a shivering-�t of quartan fever, so ill his nails have lost all color, trembles all over at the sight of shade,

so was I stricken at his words. Rebuked by shame, which, in the presence of a worthy master, makes a servant bold,

I mounted on those huge and ugly shoulders. I wanted to say—though my voice did not come out as I intended—‘Make sure you hold me fast!’

But he who had helped me many times before, in other perils, clasped me in his arms and steadied me as soon as I was mounted,

then said: ‘Geryon, move on now. Let your circles   → be wide and your descending slow. Keep in mind your unaccustomed burden.’

As a bark backs slowly from its mooring, so the beast backed o� the ledge, and when it felt itself adrift,

turned its tail to where its chest had been and, extending it, made it wriggle like an eel’s, while with its paws it gathered in the air.

Phaeton, I think, felt no greater fear   → when he released the reins and the whole sky was scorched, as we still see,

nor wretched Icarus when he felt the melting wax   →

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unfeathering the wings along his back and heard his father shout: ‘Not that way!’

than was my terror when I saw air everywhere around and all things gone from sight except the beast.

On it goes, swimming slowly, slowly   → wheeling, descending, but I feel only the wind in my face and blowing from below.

Now on our right I heard the torrent’s hideous roar below us, so that I thrust my head forward and dared to look down the abyss.

Then I was even more afraid of being dropped, for I saw �re and heard wailing, and so, trembling, I hold on tighter with my legs.

And for the �rst time I became aware of our descent and wheeling when I saw the torments drawing closer all around me.

As the falcon that has long been on the wing—   → and, without sight of lure or bird makes the falconer cry out: ‘Oh, you’re coming down!’—

descends, weary, with many a wheeling, to where it set out swiftly, and alights, angry and sullen, far from its master,

so Geryon set us down at the bottom, at the very foot of the jagged cli�, and, disburdened of our persons, vanished like an arrow from the string.

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OUTLINE: INFERNO XVIII

Malebolge as castle: wall, moats, bridges, pit similes: moats around castles and overarching bridges leftward movement after Geryon has departed �rst ditch: double �le of sinners simile: bridge in Rome over Tiber during Jubilee Year the punishing demons with their whips Dante recognizes Venedico Caccianemico Venedico’s pandering and that of other Bolognesi a demon smites him and sends him o� Dante and Virgil mount to the crown of the ridge Virgil: now Dante can watch the other group of sinners view of the seducers: Jason the second ditch: sound of whining, stench to see within, they mount to the ridge’s crown �attery: Alessio Interminei of Lucca �attery: Thaïs the whore; abrupt ending of canto

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INFERNO XVIII

There is a place in Hell called Malebolge,   → fashioned entirely of iron-colored rock, as is the escarpment that encircles it.

At the very center of this malignant space there yawns a pit, extremely wide and deep. I will describe its plan all in due time.

A path that circles like a belt around the base of that high rock runs round the pit, its sides descending in ten ditches.

As where concentric moats surround a castle to guard its walls, their patterns clear and governed by a meaningful design,

in such a pattern were these ditches shaped. And, just as narrow bridges issue from the gates of fortresses to reach the farthest bank,

so ridges stretched from the escarpment down across the banks and ditches into the pit at which they end and join.

Dropped from Geryon’s back, this was the place   → in which we found ourselves. The poet kept to the left and I came on behind him.

To our right I saw a su�ering new to me,   → new torments, and new scourgers, with whom the �rst ditch was replete.

The sinners in its depth were naked,

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those on our side of the center coming toward us, the others moving with us, but with longer strides,

just as, because the throngs were vast the year   → of Jubilee, the Romans had to �nd a way to let the people pass across the bridge,

so that all those on one side face the castle, heading over to Saint Peter’s, these, on the other, heading toward the mount.

Here and there on the dark rock above them I watched horned demons armed with heavy scourges   → lashing them cruelly from behind.

Ah, how they made them pick their heels up at the �rst stroke! You may be certain no one waited for a second or a third.

While I went on my eye was caught by one of them, and quickly I brought out: ‘It seems to me I’ve seen that man before.’

And so I paused to make him out. My gentle leader stopped with me, and then allowed me to retrace my steps.

The scourged soul thought that he could hide by lowering his face—to no avail. I said: ‘You there, with your eyes cast down,

‘if I’m not mistaken in your features, you’re Venèdico Caccianemico.   → What has brought you to such stinging torture?’

And he replied: ‘Unwillingly I tell it, moved only by the truth of what you’ve said,

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which brings to mind the world that once I knew.

‘It was I who urged Ghisolabella to do the will of that marquis, no matter how the foul tale goes around.

‘I’m not the only Bolognese here lamenting.   → This place is so crammed with them that not so many tongues have learned to say

‘ “sipa” between the Sàvena and the Reno. And if you’d like some con�rmation, bring our greedy dispositions back to mind.’

While he was speaking a demon struck him with his lash and said: ‘Away, pimp! there are no women here to trick.’   →

Then I rejoined my escort. A few steps farther and we came upon a place where a ridge jutted from the bank.

This we ascended easily and, turning to the right upon its jagged ledge, we left behind their endless circling.   →

When we came to the point above the hollow   → that makes a passage for the scourged, my leader said: ‘Stop, let them look at you,

‘those other ill-born souls whose faces you have not yet seen, since we have all been moving in the same direction.’

From the ancient bridge we eyed the band advancing toward us on the other side, driven with whips just like the �rst.

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And the good master, without my asking, said: ‘See that imposing �gure drawing near.   → He seems to shed no tears despite his pain.

‘What regal aspect he still bears! He is Jason, who by courage and by craft   → deprived the men of Colchis of the ram.

‘Then he ventured to the isle of Lemnos, after those pitiless, bold women put all the males among them to their death.

‘There with signs of love and polished words he deceived the young Hypsipyle, who had herself deceived the other women.

‘There he left her, pregnant and forlorn. Such guilt condemns him to this torment, and Medea too is thus avenged.

‘With him go all who practice such deceit. Let that be all we know of this �rst ditch and of the ones it clenches in its jaws.’

Now we had come to where the narrow causeway   → intersects the second ridge to form a buttress for another arch.

From here we heard the whimpering of people one ditch away, snu�ing with their snouts and beating on themselves with their own palms.

The banks, made slimy by a sticky vapor from below, were coated with a mould o�ending eyes and nose.

The bottom is so deep we could see nothing

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unless we climbed to the crown of the arch, just where the ridge is highest.

We went up, and from there I could see, in a ditch below, people plunged in excrement that could have come from human privies.

Searching the bottom with my eyes I saw a man, his head so smeared with shit one could not tell if he were priest or layman.

He railed: ‘What whets your appetite to stare at me more than all the others in their �lth?’ And I answered: ‘The fact, if I remember right,

‘that once I saw you when your hair was dry— and you are Alessio Interminei of Lucca.   → That’s why I eye you more than all the rest.’

Then he, beating on his pate: ‘I am immersed down here for the �attery with which my tongue was never cloyed.’

And then my leader said to me: ‘Try to thrust your face a little farther forward, to get a better picture of the features

‘of that foul, disheveled wench down there, scratching herself with her �lthy nails. Now she squats and now she’s standing up.

‘She is Thaïs, the whore who, when her lover asked:   → “Have I found favor with you?” answered, “Oh, beyond all measure!” And let our eyes be satis�ed with that.’

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OUTLINE: INFERNO XIX

the poet’s apostrophe: Simon Magus and followers the bolgia observed from the bridge apostrophe: God’s wisdom (seen in His three realms) holes of punishment simile: baptismal fonts in San Giovanni allusion to something done by Dante in the Baptistry the sinners’ kicking, burning feet simile: �ame licking an oily surface Dante’s question, Virgil’s o�er, Dante’s consent descent to the bottom of the third bolgia Dante, as confessor, questions Pope Nicholas III Nicholas takes Dante for Pope Boniface VIII Dante’s hesitation, Virgil’s urging, Dante’s consent Nicholas’s reaction and self-identi�cation Nicholas’s prediction of the per�dy and death of Pope Clement V the poet’s invective against simoniac popes his apostrophe of the emperor Constantine Nicholas responds with his feet Virgil responds with his face and arms ascent of the bank to the rim; Virgil sets Dante down view of the next “valley”

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INFERNO XIX

O Simon Magus, o wretches of his band,   → greedy for gold and silver, who prostitute the things of God

that should be brides of goodness! Now must the trumpet sound for you, because your place is there in that third ditch.

We had come to where the next tomb lay, having climbed to the point upon the ridge that overlooks the middle of the trench.

O Supreme Wisdom, what great art you show in Heaven, on earth, and in the evil world, and what true justice does your power dispense!

Along the sides and bottom I could see the livid stone was pierced with holes, all round and of a single size.

They seemed to me as wide and deep   → as those in my beautiful Saint John made for the priests to baptize in,

one of which, not many years ago, I broke to save one nearly drowned in it— and let this be my seal, to undeceive all men.

From the mouth of each stuck out   → a sinner’s feet and legs up to the thighs while all the rest stayed in the hole.

They all had both their soles on �re.   →

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It made their knee-joints writhe so hard they would have severed twisted vines or ropes.

As �ames move only on the surface   → of oily matter caught on �re, so these �ames �ickered heel to toe.

‘Who is that, master, who in his torment wriggles more than any of his fellows and is licked by redder �ames?’

And he: ‘If you like, I’ll take you down along the lower bank and you will learn,   → from him, his life and his misdeeds.’

And I: ‘Whatever pleases you is my desire.   → You are my lord and know I do your will. You know, too, what I leave unsaid.’

Then we came to the fourth embankment, turned and descended on our left into a narrow bottom pierced with holes.

The good master clasped me to his side and did not set me down until we came to the pit of one lamenting with his shanks.

‘Whatever you are, with your upper parts below,   → planted like a post, you wretched soul,’ said I, ‘come out with something, if you can.’

I stood there like a friar who confesses   → a treacherous assassin. Once �xed in place, he calls the friar back to stay his death.

And he cried out: ‘Is that you already,   → are you here already, Boniface?

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By several years the writing lied to me.   →

‘Are you so swiftly sated with those pro�ts for which you did not fear to take by guile the beautiful Lady and to do her outrage?’   →

I became like those who stand there mocked, not comprehending what is said to them, and thus not knowing what to say in turn.

Then Virgil said: ‘Tell him right away, “I’m not the one, I’m not the one you think.” ’ I gave the answer I was told to give.

At that the spirit’s feet began to writhe. Then, sighing, with a plaintive voice, he said: ‘What is it then you want from me?

‘If you are so keen to learn my name that you descended from the bank for it, know that I was cloaked in the great mantle.   →

‘But in truth I was a son of the she-bear and so avid was I to advance my cubs I �lled my purse as now I �ll this hole.

‘Beneath my head are crushed the others who practiced simony before me, now �attened into �ssures in the rock.

‘In turn I, too, shall be thrust lower down as soon as he arrives whom I mistook you for when I called out my hasty question.

‘But the time that I turned upside down,   → have roasted my feet even now exceeds the time that he’ll be planted with his feet on �re.

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‘For after him shall come a lawless shepherd from the west, one even fouler in his deeds, �t to be the cover over him and me.

‘A new Jason shall he be, the one of whom we read in Maccabees, and even as the king indulged Jason, so the king of France shall deal with him.’

I do not know if then I was too bold   → when I answered him in just this strain: ‘Please tell me, how much treasure   →

‘did our Lord insist on from Saint Peter before He gave the keys into his keeping? Surely He asked no more than “Follow me,”

‘nor did Peter, or the others, take gold or silver from Matthias when he was picked by lot to �ll the place lost by the guilty soul.

‘Stay there then, for you are justly punished, guarding well those gains, ill-gotten, that made you boldly take your stand against King Charles.

‘And were it not that I am still restrained by the reverence I owe the keys supreme, which once you held in the happy life above,

‘I would resort to even harsher words because your avarice a�icts the world, trampling down the good and raising up the wicked.

‘Shepherds like you the Evangelist had in mind when he saw the one that sits upon the waters committing fornication with the kings,

‘she that was born with seven heads

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and from ten horns derived her strength so long as virtue pleased her bridegroom.

‘You have wrought yourselves a god of gold and silver. How then do you di�er from those who worship idols except they worship one and you a hundred?

‘Ah, Constantine, to what evil you gave birth,   → not by your conversion, but by the dowry that the �rst rich Father had from you!’

And while I sang such notes to him, whether gnawed by anger or by conscience, he kicked out hard with both his feet.

Truly I believe this pleased my leader, he listened with a look of such contentment to the sound of the truthful words I spoke.

Therefore, he caught me in his arms   → and, when he had me all upon his breast, remounted by the path he had descended,

nor did he tire of holding me so close but bore me to the summit of the arch   → that crosses from the fourth dike to the �fth.

Here gently he set down his burden, gently on account of the steep, rough ridge that would have made hard going for a goat. And there, before me, another valley opened.

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31–39    40–45    46–51    52–56    57–93    94–99    100–105    106–114    115–117    118    118–120    121–123   

124–129    130   

OUTLINE: INFERNO XX

Introduction: proem to a twentieth canto �rst view of diviners: silent weeping second view: faces turned backwards on twisted necks address to reader (fourth in Inferno) Dante’s tears and Virgil’s rebuke

The diviners: 1. Amphiaraus (Statius, Thebaid VII–VIII) 2. Tiresias (Ovid, Metamorphoses III) 3. Aruns (Lucan, Pharsalia I) 4. Manto (Virgil, Aeneid X) Virgil’s digression on Manto and Mantua second digression: modern-day Mantua Dante’s responses 5. Eurypylus (Virgil, Aeneid II) 6. Michael Scot (astrologer of Frederick II) 7. Guido Bonati (astrologer of G. da Montefeltro) 8. Asdente (astrologer in Parma) 9. crowd of female soothsayers

Coda: Virgil urges Dante to resume the journey they depart

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INFERNO XX

Of strange new pain I now must make my verse,   → giving matter to the canto numbered twenty of this �rst canzone, which tells of those submerged.

By now I was all eagerness to see   → what sights the chasm, bathed in tears of anguish, would disclose.

I saw people come along that curving canyon in silence, weeping, their pace the pace of slow processions chanting litanies in the world.

As my gaze moved down along their shapes,   → I saw into what strange contortions their chins and chests were twisted.

Their faces were reversed upon their shoulders   → so that they came on walking backward, since seeing forward was denied them.

Perhaps some time by stroke of palsy a person could be twisted in that way, but I’ve not seen it nor do I think it likely.

Reader, so may God let you gather fruit   → from reading this, imagine, if you can, how I could have kept from weeping

when I saw, up close, our human likeness so contorted that tears from their eyes ran down their buttocks, down into the cleft.

Yes, I wept, leaning against a spur   →

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of the rough crag, so that my escort said: ‘Are you still as witless as the rest?

’Here piety lives when pity is quite dead.   → Who is more impious than one who thinks that God shows passion in His judgment?

‘Raise your head! Raise it and look on him   → under whose feet the earth gaped open in sight of all the shouting Thebans:

‘ “Where are you rushing, Amphiaraus? Why do you leave the war?” Nor did he stop his plunge until he fell to Minos, who lays hold on all.

‘See how his shoulder-blades are now his chest. Because he aspired to see too far ahead he looks behind and treads a backward path.

‘See Tiresias, who changed his likeness   → when he was turned from male to female, transformed in every member.

‘Later on he had to touch once more the two twined serpents with his rod before he could regain his manly plumes.

‘He who puts his back to that one’s belly is Aruns.   → In the hills of Luni—where the Carraresi, who shelter in the valley, work the earth—

‘he lived inside a cave in that white marble, from which he could observe the sea and stars in a wide and boundless prospect.

‘And that female whose backward-�owing tresses   → fall upon her breasts so they are hidden,

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and has her hairy parts on that same side,

‘was Manto, who searched through many lands before she settled in the place where I was born— for just a moment hear me out on this.   →

’After her father had parted from this life and the city of Bacchus was enslaved, she wandered for a time about the world.

‘High in fair Italy, at the foot of the alps   → that form a border with Germany near Tyrol, lies a lake they call Benàco.

‘By a thousand springs and more, I think,   → the region between Garda, Val Camonica, and Pennino is bathed by waters settling in that lake.

‘There is an island in its middle that the pastors of Trent, Brescia, and Verona, should they pass that way, would bless.

‘Peschiera, a strong and splendid fortress   → against the Brescians and the Bergamese, sits on the lowest point of land around.

‘There all the water Benàco’s bosom cannot hold   → �ows over and descends into a river running through green pastures.

‘This river, as it leaves the lake and all the way to Govérnolo, is called Mincio until it falls into the Po.

‘Before that, after but the briefest run,   → it levels o� and spreads to make a swamp sometimes scarce of water in the summer.

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‘When she passed that way, the cruel virgin saw dry land in the middle of the marsh where no one lived and no one tilled the soil.

‘There, to avoid all company, she stopped,   → with only servants, to ply her magic arts. There she lived and left her empty body.

’Later on, the people scattered round about collected there because it was protected by the marsh on every side.

‘They built the city over those dead bones and, after her who �rst had claimed the spot, named it Mantua, with no spells or incantations.

‘Once, its population was more plentiful,   → before the foolishness of Casalodi bore the brunt of Pinamonte’s guile.

‘I charge you, therefore, should you ever hear   → my city’s origin described another way, allow no lie to falsify the truth.’

And I: ‘Master, to me your explanation is so convincing and so takes my trust that any other tale would seem spent embers.

‘But tell me, among these people who are passing, if you see any worthy of my notice, for my thoughts keep going back to them alone.’

Then he replied: ‘The one whose beard   → falls from his jowls onto his swarthy shoulders was—when Greece was so deprived of males

‘that the only ones still there were in their cradles—

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a soothsayer. At Aulis, along with Calchas, he told the favoring time for setting sail.

‘Eurypylus was his name, and thus he is sung in certain verses of my lofty tragedy, as you know very well, who know it all.

‘That other, with the skinny shanks,   → was Michael Scot, who truly understood the way to play the game of magic tricks.

’See Guido Bonatti. See Asdente, who now regrets   →   → not having worked his leather and his thread— but he repents too late.

‘See the wretched women who gave up needle,   → spool, and spindle to take up fortune-telling, casting spells with images and herbs.

‘But come now, for Cain, with his thorns,   → already stands above the border of both hemispheres and touches the waves below Seville.

‘and recall two nights ago   → the moon, already full, did you no harm, at any time in the deep wood.’ These were his words while we were moving on.   →

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OUTLINE: INFERNO XXI

continuation of the conversation that ends Canto XX weeping and darkness in the �fth bolgia simile: the pitch and that in the arsenal at Venice Virgil’s �rst warning to Dante and Dante’s reaction a nameless devil laden with an anonymous sinner the devil will return to Lucca for more like him the devil departs the new victim pronged by the sporting devils simile: cooks prodding meat down in their cauldrons Virgil’s second warning and claim of expertise Virgil advances to meet the foe simile: Virgil as beggar, devils as watchdogs Virgil’s command to the “dogs” Malacoda summoned and arriving Virgil’s vaunt and Malacoda’s apparent servility Virgil summons Dante from his hiding-place simile: the truce at Caprona these “troops” do not look peaceful to Dante Malacoda restrains Scarmiglione Malacoda lies about the condition of the bridges Malacoda assembles his squad of ten Malacoda lies about the purpose of their mission Dante, terri�ed, longs for other guides than these Virgil’s reassurance the decuria readies itself; the diabolic signal

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INFERNO XXI

Thus from one bridge to the next we came   → until we reached its highest point, speaking of things my Comedy does not care to sing.

We stopped to look into the next crevasse of Malebolge and heard more useless weeping. All I could see was an astounding darkness.

As in the arsenal of the Venetians   → in wintertime they boil the viscous pitch to caulk their unsound ships

because they cannot sail—one rebuilds his ship, while still another plugs the seams of his, weathered by many a voyage:

one hammers at the stem, another at the stern, this one makes the oars, that one twists the ropes for rigging, another patches jib and mainsail—

so, not with �re, but by the art of God, a thick pitch boiled there, sticking to the banks on either side.

I saw the pitch but still saw nothing in it except the bubbles raised up by the boiling, the whole mass swelling and then settling back.

While I stared �xedly upon the seething pitch, my leader cried: ‘Look out, look out!’ and drew me to him, away from where I stood.

Then I turned like a man, intent

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on making out what he must run from, undone by sudden fear,

who does not slow his �ight for all his looking back: just so I caught a glimpse of some dark devil   → running toward us up the ledge.

Ah, how ferocious were his looks and �erce his gesturing, with wings spread wide and nimble feet!

One of his shoulders, which were high and pointed,   → was laden with the haunches of a sinner he held hooked by the tendons of his heels.

From our bridge he said: ‘O Malebranche,   → here is one of Santa Zita’s Elders.   → Thrust him under, while I head back for more   →

‘to that city, where there’s such a �ne supply. Every man there—except Bonturo—is a swindler.   → There money turns a No into a Yeah.’

He �ung him down and turned back up the stony ridge. Never did a masti� set loose to chase a thief make greater haste.

The sinner sank, then rose again, his face all pitch.   → The demons, under cover of the bridge, cried out: ‘This is no place for the Holy Visage!

‘Here you swim a di�erent stroke than in the Serchio!   → Unless you’d like to feel our hooks, don’t let yourself stick out above the pitch.’

Then, with a hundred hooks and more, they ripped him, crying: ‘Here you must do your dance

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in secret and pilfer—can you?—in the dark.’

In just the same way cooks command their scullions to take their skewers and prod the meat down in the cauldron, lest it �oat back up.

Then my good master said: ‘Squat down   → behind that rock and �nd some cover so that they do not see that you are here.

‘As for any outrage they may do me, have no fear. I know this place and had exactly such a scu�e here before.’   →

After he had crossed the bridge and reached the other bank, he had to show how resolute he was:

With all the rage and uproar   → of dogs that rush upon a beggar— who quickly starts to beg where he has stopped—

they swarmed on him from underneath the bridge with threatening hooks. But he cried out: ‘Wait! Let none of you do harm!

‘Before you grapple at me with your hooks let one of you come forth to hear me out. Then take counsel, whether to use your claws.’

All cried: ‘Let Malacoda go.’ One moved—   → the rest stood still—and he came forward, grumbling: ‘This won’t do him any good.’

‘Consider, Malacoda,’ said my master,   → ‘whether you would see me come this far unstopped by all your hindering

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‘without the will of God and favoring fate? Let us proceed, for it is willed in Heaven that I guide another down this savage way.’

Then his pride was so abashed that he let drop   → the billhook to his feet, saying to the others: ‘Enough, let no one touch him.’

And my leader said to me: ‘You there, cowering   → among the broken boulders of the bridge, now you may come back to me in safety.’

At that I stirred and hastened to him. Then the devils all came surging forward so that I feared they might not keep the truce.

Just so do I recall the troops afraid to leave Caprona with safe-conduct,   → �nding themselves among so many enemies.

I drew my body up against my leader but kept my eyes �xed on their faces, which were far from friendly.

They aimed their hooks, and one said to another:   → ‘How about I nick him on the rump?’ And the other answered: ‘Sure, let him have one.’

But the demon who was speaking with my leader turned round at once and said: ‘Easy does it, Scarmiglione!’

And then to us: ‘You can’t continue farther   → down this ridge, for the sixth arch lies broken into pieces at the bottom.

‘If you desire to continue on,

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then make your way along this rocky ledge. Nearby’s another crag that yields a passage.

‘Yesterday, at a time �ve hours from now,   → it was a thousand two hundred sixty-six years since the road down here was broken.

‘I’m sending some men of mine along that way   → to see if anyone is out to take the air. Go with them—they won’t hurt you.’

‘Step forward, Alichino, Calcabrina,’   → he continued, ’and you Cagnazzo, and let Barbariccia lead the squad.

‘Let Libicocco come too, and Draghignazzo, Cirïatto with his tusks, and Gra�acane, Farfarello, and madcap Rubicante.

‘Have a good look around the boiling glue. Keep these two safe as far as the next crag   → that runs all of a piece above the dens.’

‘Oh, master,’ I said, ‘I don’t like what I see.   → Please, let us �nd our way without an escort, if you know how. As for me, I do not want one.

‘If you are as vigilant as ever, don’t you see they grind their teeth while with their furrowed brows they threaten harm?’

And he to me: ‘Don’t be afraid.   → Let them grind on to their hearts’ content— they do it for the stewing wretches.’

O� they set along the left-hand bank,   → but �rst each pressed his tongue between his teeth

139 to blow a signal to their leader, and he had made a trumpet of his asshole.

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OUTLINE: INFERNO XXII

opening simile: the signal for a departure the unlikely companions start their march two similes: sinners as dolphins and as frogs Gra�acane hooks a sinner Dante explains how he came to know the devils’ names the other devils urge Rubicante to �ay the sinner Dante asks Virgil to determine the sinner’s identity Virgil asks him; the sinner says he is from Navarre Ciampolo’s autobiography Cirïatto gores Ciampolo; Barbariccia protects him Virgil wants to know of any Italians in the pitch Ciampolo mentions a Sardinian neighbor Libicocco attacks; Draghignazzo threatens Barbariccia again controls the situation Virgil insists on having the information he seeks Ciampolo’s “neighbors”: Fra Gomita and Michel Zanche Ciampolo observes Farfarello’s evil intent the “provost,” Barbariccia, restrains Farfarello Ciampolo’s stratagem, asking space to summon others dispute between Cagnazzo and Alichino the �fth address to the reader in this cantica Ciampolo’s escape, Alichino’s pursuit: simile of wild duck and falcon Calcabrina and Alichino grapple, fall into the pitch Barbariccia organizes his two rescue parties Virgil and Dante make good their escape

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INFERNO XXII

I have seen the cavalry break camp,   → prepare for an attack, make their muster and at times fall back to save themselves.

I have seen outriders in your land, O Aretines. I have seen raiding-parties, tournaments of teams, hand-to-hand jousts

begun with bells, trumpets, or drums, with signals from the castle, with summons of our own and those from foreign lands,

but never to such outlandish fanfare have I seen horsemen move, or infantry, or ship set sail at sign from land or star.

On we went, escorted by ten demons.   → What savage company! But, as they say, ‘in church with saints, with guzzlers in the tavern.’

My attention was �xed upon the pitch to note each detail of this gulch and of the people poaching in it.

Like dolphins, when they arch their backs   → above the water, giving sailors warning to prepare to save their ship,

so from time to time, to ease his pain, one of the sinners would show his back and, quick as lightning, hide it once again.

And just as in a ditch at water’s edge

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frogs squat with but their snouts in sight, their bodies and their legs all hidden,

so were the sinners scattered everywhere. But they, at the approach of Barbariccia, withdrew back down beneath the boiling.

There I saw—and my heart still shudders at it— one who lingered, as it can happen that one frog stays while yet another plunges,

and Gra�acane, who was nearest him, caught a billhook in his pitchy locks and hauled him out, looking like an otter.

By now I knew their names,   → since I had noted these when they were chosen and when they called to one another.

‘Set your claws to work, Rubicante, see you rip his skin o�,’ shouted all the accursèd crew together.

And I: ‘Master, if you can do it, �nd out the name of this poor wretch caught in the clutches of his enemies.’

My leader got up close beside him and asked him where he came from. He replied: ‘I was born in the kingdom of Navarre.   →

‘My mother, who had conceived me by a wastrel— destroyer of himself and all his goods— put me in service with a man of rank.

‘Then I joined the retinue of worthy Thibaut: there �rst I set myself to taking bribes,

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for which I pay the reckoning in this heat.’

And Ciriatto, from whose jaw curved up on either side a tusk, like the wild boar’s, made him feel how one of these could rip.

The mouse had fallen in with wicked cats. But Barbariccia blocked them with his arms   → and said: ‘Stand back and let me jab him,’

then turned to face my master: ‘Speak up, if you are eager to learn more, before I let him have a mangling.’

And my leader: ‘Of the other sinners in the pitch,   → tell me, is anyone Italian?’ And he: ‘I just now came from one

‘who hailed from near those parts. I wish   → I still were with him in the pitch— then I’d have no fear of hook or claw!’

Then Libicocco said: ‘This is just too much,’   → caught him with his grapple by the arm and, ripping, gouged out a hunk of �esh.

Draghignazzo, too, wanted to catch him up, by the legs, at which their captain wheeled round on them with an ugly look.

After their fury had subsided, my leader seized this chance to ask the one still staring at his wound:

‘Who is the one you mentioned, from whom you parted so unwisely when you came ashore?’ And he replied: ‘It was Fra Gomìta   →

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‘of Gallura, a vessel full of fraud, who had his master’s enemies in hand but dealt with them so each one sings his praises.

‘He took their money and discreetly let them o�, as he himself admits. And in his other actions he was no small-time swindler but a king.

’Don Michel Zanche of Logudoro   → keeps company with him and, when speaking of Sardegna, their tongues are never weary.

‘Oh, look at that one there, gnashing his teeth!—   → I would say more, but I’m afraid that demon’s getting set to give my mange a scratching.’

And the great marshal, turning to Farfarello, who was rolling his eyes, ready to strike, said: ‘Back o�, you �lthy bird!’

‘If you would care to see or hear,’   → the emboldened spirit then began again, ‘Tuscans or Lombards, I can make some come.

‘But let the Malebranche stand away   → so that the sinners have no fear of vengeance, and, keeping to my place right here,

‘for one of me, I will make seven come if I whistle, as is our custom when one of us pulls free out of the pitch.’

At this Cagnazzo lifted up his snout and said, shaking his head: ‘Hear the cunning stunt he has contrived to throw himself back in!’

And he, with arti�ce in store, replied:

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‘I must indeed be cunning if I procure still greater anguish for my friends.’

Alichino couldn’t stand this any more and said, in opposition to the others: ‘If you dive back in I won’t pursue you on the run—

‘oh no! I’ll beat my wings above the pitch. Let’s leave the ridge and hide behind the bank. We’ll see if you alone can take us on.’

Now, reader, you shall hear strange sport. All turned their backs to where the sinner stood, he �rst who’d most opposed the plan.

The Navarrese chose his moment well, planted his feet and in a second leaped and escaped from their designs.

At this they all were angry at their blunder,   → but most of all the one whose fault it was, so that he darted up and cried: ‘Now you are caught!’

It did him little good, for even wings could not catch up with terror: the sinner dove and the devil turned up his breast in �ight,

just as the wild duck, when the falcon nears, dives for the bottom, and the bird of prey must �y back up, angry and outsmarted.

Calcabrina, furious at this trick, was winging close behind him, eager for the sinner to break away as an excuse to scu�e,

and, since the barrator had vanished, he turned his claws against his fellow

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and came to grips with him above the ditch.

But the other was indeed a full-�edged hawk, �erce with his talons, and the pair of them went tumbling down into the scalding pond.

The heat unclutched them in a moment, but they had so beglued their wings there was no way to rise above the pitch.

Barbariccia, lamenting with the rest,   → had four of them �y to the other bank, each with his hook in hand, and in no time

on this side and on that they clambered down to their posts, reaching out their grapples to the pitch-trapped pair, already cooked to a crust. And that is how we left them in that broil.   →

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100–108    109–110    111–123    124–126    127–132    133–138    139–144    145–148   

OUTLINE: INFERNO XXIII

Virgil and Dante continue, walking as Franciscans do Aesopic second-thoughts on the preceding scene simile: one thought springing from another Dante’s re�ection on his present condition his resultant request to Virgil that they hide Virgil’s plan to escape into the next bolgia the Malebranche are back in force similes: mother escaping with babe; water through sluice (Virgil seizes Dante and carries him) view of the Malebranche from �oor of sixth bolgia the hypocrites in their gilded leaden cloaks Dante hopes Virgil will �nd a being familiar to him Dante’s Tuscan speech catches the interest of two Dante explains his origin and condition and asks of their identities and punishment Catalano identi�es Loderingo and responds Dante’s interrupted apostrophe of evil friars Caiaphas and Catalano’s gloss on him Virgil’s wonderment at Caiaphas Virgil asks Catalano for directions Catalano reveals what Malacoda concealed Virgil’s response and Catalano’s rejoinder Virgil, in some anger, departs, with Dante following

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INFERNO XXIII

Silent, alone, and unescorted   → we went on, one in front, the other following, as Friars Minor walk along the roads.

The brawl played out before our eyes   → put me in mind of Aesop’s fable in which he told the tale of frog and mouse,

for ‘issa’ and ‘mo’ are not more like in meaning than one case and the other, if we compare with circumspection their beginnings and their ends.

Just as one thought issues from another, so, from the �rst, another now was born that made me twice as fearful as before.

I thought, ’It’s our fault they have been cheated, and with such hurt and shame I’m sure it must enrage them.

‘If rage is added to their malice, they will pursue us still more cruelly than the hound that sets his fangs into a hare.’

I could feel my scalp go taut with fear   → and kept my thoughts �xed just behind me as I spoke: ‘Master, can’t you quickly

‘hide yourself and me? I am in terror of the Malebranche; I sense them there behind us, imagine them so clear I almost hear them.’

And he: ‘If I were made of leaded glass   →

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I could not re�ect your outward likeness in less time than I grasp the one inside you.

’Just now your thought commingled with my own, alike in attitude and aspect, so that of both I’ve formed a single plan.

‘If the slope there to the right allows us to make our way into the other ditch, we shall escape the chase we both envision.’

Before he �nished telling me his plan   → I saw them coming, wings outspread, closing in to catch us.

My leader in a moment snatched me up,   → like a mother who, awakened by the hubbub before she sees the �ames that burn right near her,

snatches up her child and �ees, and, more concerned for him than for herself, does not delay to put a shift on.

Down from the rim of that stony bank, supine, he slid along the sloping rock that forms one border of the next crevasse.

Never did water, as it nears the paddles,   → rush down along the sluices cut through earth to turn a millwheel

more swiftly than my master down that bank, bearing me along clasped to his breast as if I were his child, not his companion.

No sooner had he touched the bottom with his feet   → than the devils were above us on the ridge.

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Yet now we had no cause for feeling fear,

for high Providence, which made them wardens of the �fth crevasse, deprives them of the power to leave it.

Down there we came upon a lacquered people   → who made their round, in tears, with listless steps. They seemed both weary and defeated.

The cloaks they wore cut like the capes   → sewn for the monks at Cluny, had cowls that hung down past their eyes.

Gilded and dazzling on the outside,   → within they are of lead, so ponderous that those imposed by Frederick would seem but straw.   →

Oh what a toilsome cloak to wear forever! Once more we turned to the left, then went along beside them, intent upon their wretched wailing.

Their burden made that weary people move so slowly we had new companions each time we set one foot before the other.

And I said to my leader: ‘Cast your eyes this way and that as we walk on. See if you know the names or deeds of any.’

And one of them, having heard my Tuscan speech,   → cried out behind us: ‘Stay your feet, you who hasten through this sullen air.

‘I perhaps can answer what you asked.’ At that my leader turned around to say: ‘Wait a moment, then continue at his pace.’

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I stopped and noticed two whose looks showed haste of mind to reach me, but their load and the narrow way detained them.

When they came near they looked at me askance for a while, without uttering a word, until they turned to one another, saying:

‘The way his throat moves, this one must be alive. And if they are dead, what gives them the right to go uncovered by the heavy stole?’

and then to me: ‘O Tuscan, who have come to this assembly of sad hypocrites,   → do not disdain to tell us who you are.’

‘In the great city, by the fair river Arno,’ I said to them, ’I was born and raised, and I am here in the body that was always mine.

‘But who are you in whom I see distilled the misery running down your cheeks in tears? And what is the grief you bear that glitters so?’

And one of them answered: ‘Our golden cloaks are made of lead, and they’re so dense, like scales we creak beneath their weight.   →

‘We were Jovial Friars, born in Bologna.   → My name was Catalano, his, Loderingo.   → Your city made the two of us a pair,

‘where usually a single man was chosen, to keep the peace within, and we were such that all around Gardingo the ruins can be seen.’

I began: ‘O Friars, your evil deeds …’   →

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but said no more, for one there caught my eye,   → �xed cross-wise to the ground by three short stakes.

Seeing me, he writhed all over, blowing sighs into his beard, and Fra Catalano, observing this, said:

‘That man you see nailed down advised the Pharisees it was the better course that one man should be martyred for the people.

’He is stretched out naked, as you see,   → across the path. It is his lot to feel the weight of each who passes.

‘Just so his father-in-law is racked with us   → down here and with the others of the council that was a seed of evil for the Jews.’

I saw that Virgil marveled at the sight   → of this shape stretched as on a cross, so ignoble in his eternal exile.

Then he addressed the friar with these words: ‘May it please you, if it is permitted, to say if on our right there is a passage

‘by which we two might leave this place without requiring help from some black angels   → to pluck us from these depths.’

And he replied: ’Nearer than you hope there lies   → a rocky ridge that crosses all the savage valleys from the farthest circle inward.

‘It has fallen only here and fails to reach across. You can clamber up the sloping rubble

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that lies upon the bottom and piles up along the side.’

My leader stood a while, his head bent down, then said: ‘He who rips the sinners in the other ditch misled us in his picture of this place.’

And the friar: ‘At one time in Bologna I heard tell   → of the Devil’s many vices, and I heard he is a liar and the father of all lies.’

At that my leader stalked o� with long strides,   → a moment’s look of anger on his face. And so I left those overburdened souls to follow in the imprints of his cherished feet.

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OUTLINE: INFERNO XXIV

the elaborate opening simile: peasant and hoarfrost Virgil, back and prudently calculating, embraces Dante simile: a provident man the di�cult ascent out of the sixth bolgia Dante’s arrival and temporary repose Virgil urges Dante upward and onward Dante’s forced assurances of his readiness along the ridge over the seventh bolgia Dante’s curiosity about a voice from below his desire to �nd its source and Virgil’s assent over the bridge to the edge of the eighth bolgia and a closer look into the seventh the serpents and the sinners “death and resurrection” of Vanni Fucci simile: a man possessed or in epileptic �t exclamation of the poet: God’s power Virgil begets response from Vanni Dante’s further request of Vanni through Virgil Vanni’s confession Vanni’s prophecy of Dante’s political misery

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INFERNO XXIV

In that season of the youthful year   → when the sun cools his locks beneath Aquarius and the dark already nears but half the day,

and when the hoarfrost copies out upon the �elds the very image of her snowy sister— although her pen-point is not sharp for long—

the peasant, short of fodder, rises, looks out, and sees the countryside turned white, at which he slaps his thigh,

goes back indoors, grumbling here and there like a wretch who knows not what to do, then goes outside again and is restored to hope,

seeing that the world has changed its face in that brief time, and now picks up his crook and drives his sheep to pasture.

Thus the master caused me to lose heart when I saw how troubled was his brow and just as quickly came the poultice to the wound,

for no sooner had we reached the broken bridge than he turned to me with that gentle glance I �rst saw at the mountain’s foot.

He looked with care upon the ruin,   → took thought, chose a plan of action, then opened out his arms and took me in them.

And like one who reckons as he works,

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always planning for what comes next, thus, while raising me to one boulder’s peak,

he searched for yet another crag and said: ‘Take hold of that one next but test it �rst to see if it will bear your weight.’

This was no climb for people wearing leaden cloaks.   → Though he was weightless and I was being pushed,   → how hard a climb it was from one crag to the other!

Were it not that on this side of the dike the slope was shorter—I cannot speak for him— I would have given up.

But since all Malebolge inclines   → down to the mouth of the lowest pit, it follows that each valley is constructed

with one side higher than the other. At last we made it to the point where the outermost stone had broken o�.

And there I felt my lungs so sucked of breath that I could go no farther, but I sat down as quickly as I could.

‘Now must you cast o� sloth,’ my master said. ‘Sitting on feather cushions or stretched out under comforters, no one comes to fame.

‘Without fame, he who spends his time on earth   → leaves only such a mark upon the world as smoke does on the air or foam on water.

‘Get to your feet! Conquer this laboring breath with strength of mind, which wins the battle

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if not dragged down by body’s weight.

‘There is a longer stair that must be climbed. It’s not enough to leave these souls behind. If you take my meaning, let it be of use.’

At that I rose, pretending to more breath   → than I had in me, and said: ‘Go on then, for I am strong and resolute.’

We labored up a ridge, rugged, narrow, di�cult, and steeper far than was the last.

Not to seem so spent, I talked as I climbed up. Then, from the next ditch, came a voice   → that seemed un�t for forming words.

I could not make out what it said,   → though I was at the crown that arches over, but the one who spoke seemed to be in motion.

Hard as I strained to see, it was too dark for living eyes to plumb the depths. And so I said: ‘Master, take your way

‘to the next ledge where we can leave this bridge. From here I make out nothing with my ears nor with my eyes see anything down there.’

‘I give no other answer than to take you,’ he said, ‘for a just request should be followed by the act, in silence.’

We left the bridge at the abutment   → where it comes to rest on that eighth bank. From there the contents of the ditch came into view.

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In it I saw a dreadful swarm of serpents,   → of so strange a kind that even now when I remember them it chills my blood.

Let Libya with all her sands no longer boast,   → for though she fosters chelydri, jaculi, phareae, cenchres, and amphisbaena,

she never reared so many venomous pests,   → nor so appalling—not with all of Ethiopia and the lands that lie along the Red Sea coast.

Amid this fearsome and most awful plenty,   → people, naked and in terror, were running without hope of refuge or of heliotrope.

Their hands were tied behind their backs with snakes that thrust their heads and tails between the legs and joined, knotting themselves in front.

And behold, one of these souls was near our ridge   → when a serpent launched and pierced him through   → right where the neck and shoulders join.

Never has ‘o’ nor even ‘i’ been writ so quick   → as he caught �re and burned, turned, in the very act of falling, into ashes.

And as he lay unmade upon the ground, the dust regathered of its own accord and suddenly he was himself again.

Just, as is attested by great sages, the phoenix perishes and is reborn   → when it approaches its �ve-hundredth year—

lifelong it feeds on neither grain nor grasses,

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but thrives on drops of frankincense and cardamom, while nard and myrrh make up its winding sheet—

and just as one who faints, and knows not why— whether possessed by devils that pull him down or seized by the sickness that causes men to fall—

rises to his feet, and gazes round, wholly bewildered by the breathless anguish he has undergone, and as he looks, he sighs,

such did that sinner seem when he had risen. O how stern it is, the power of God,   → hurling such blows as it takes vengeance!

When my leader asked him who he was: ‘From Tuscany I rained down,’ was his answer,   → ‘not long ago, into this savage gorge.

‘I loved the life of beasts and not of men, just like the mule I was. I am Vanni Fucci, animal. Pistoia was my �tting den.’

And I to my leader: ‘Tell him not to slip away,   → then ask what sin has thrust him to this depth, for I knew him as a man of blood and rages.’

And the sinner, listening, did not dissemble, but set his mind and eyes on me, then colored with a wrathful shame   →

and said: ‘For you to catch me in this misery pains me more than when I was taken from the other life.

‘I can’t refuse to answer what you ask. I am thrust so far below because I stole

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the lovely ornaments from the sacristy

‘and the blame was wrongly laid upon another. But, so you take no joy in seeing me this low,   → if ever you escape from these dark regions,

‘open your ears to prophecy and hear: First, Pistoia strips herself of Blacks,   → then Florence changes families and fashions.

‘Next Mars draws up a bolt from Val di Magra, engulfed by torn and threatening clouds, and, with violent and stinging storms,

’on Campo Piceno the battle shall be joined. The headlong bolt shall rend the clouds, striking and wounding every White. And this I have told that it may make you grieve.’   →

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OUTLINE: INFERNO XXV

Vanni’s blasphemy and the serpents’ attack the poet’s apostrophe: Pistoia Vanni Fucci’s �ight and the centaur’s pursuit the poet’s fanciful demon, Cacus Virgil’s “certi�cation” of Cacus the sudden appearance of three thieves sixth address to the reader Agnello shares a new shape with Cianfa simile: lizard darting across path “mating” of a serpent (Francesco) and a “man” (Buoso) the poet’s claim to have surpassed Lucan and Ovid Buoso changes shape with serpent Francesco the poet’s apology Puccio alone is not transmogri�ed

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INFERNO XXV

Then, making the �gs with both his thumbs,   → the thief raised up his �sts and cried: ‘Take that, God! It’s aimed at you!’

From that time on the serpents were my friends,   → for one of them coiled itself around his neck   → as if to say, ‘Now you shall speak no more,’

while another enmeshed his arms and held him fast, knotting itself so tight around his front he could not even twitch his arms.

Ah, Pistoia, Pistoia, why won’t you resolve   → to burn yourself to ashes, cease to be, since you exceed your ancestors in evil?

Through all the gloomy rounds of Hell   → I saw no soul so prideful against God, not even him who toppled from the walls at Thebes.

He ran away without another word. And then I saw a centaur full of rage   → come shouting: ‘Where, where is that unripe soul?’

Maremma does not have as many snakes,   → I think, as he had on his back, from where the human part begins down to the rump.

On his shoulders, at the nape of his neck, crouched a dragon with its wings spread wide that sets on �re whatever it encounters.

My master said: ‘That is Cacus,

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who in the cave beneath the Aventine many times over has made a lake of blood.

‘His road is di�erent from his brothers’ because he stole, with wicked cunning, the herd of cattle he found near at hand.

‘For that his wily ways were ended beneath the club of Hercules, who struck perhaps a hundred blows, though he felt not the tenth.’

While my master spoke the centaur had run past.   → Below where we were standing, three new souls had neared, although we did not see them

until we heard their shouts: ‘You, who are you?’ At that he stopped his tale and we gave heed to them alone.

I knew none of them, and yet it happened— as often happens by some chance— that one had cause to speak another’s name,

asking: ‘What’s become of Cianfa?’   → And then, to catch my guide’s attention,   → I held my �nger up from chin to nose.

If, reader, you are slow to credit what I’m about to tell you, it’s no wonder: I saw it, and I myself can scarce believe it.

While I stood staring, with eyebrows raised,   → a reptile with six legs propelled itself at one of them, and fastened itself to him.

It grabbed his belly with its middle claws, then with its forepaws held his arms

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and bit through both his cheeks.

It stretched its hind feet down the other’s thighs, thrusting its tail between them and curled it up behind, above the buttocks.

Never did clinging ivy �x itself so tight upon a tree as did that fearsome beast entwine itself around the other’s limbs.

Then they fused together, as if made of molten wax, mixing their colors so that neither seemed what it had been before,

as over the surface of a scrap of parchment,   → before the advancing �ame, a brownish color comes that is not black, yet makes the white die out.

The other two were looking on and each was shouting: ‘Oh my, Agnello, how you change!   → Look, now you are neither two nor one!’   →

The two heads had already been united, two sets of features blending, both lost in a single face.

Four separate limbs combined to form two arms. The thighs and calves, the stomach and the chest turned into members never seen before.

All trace of their �rst aspect was erased and the unnatural �gure seemed both two and none and lumbered o� at its slow pace.

As the green lizard beneath the scorching lash   → of dog-day heat, between one hedge and the next, seems lightning as it streaks across the road,

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just so appeared—darting toward the bellies   → of the other two—a little �ery reptile, black and livid as a peppercorn.

That part where �rst we are nourished it trans�xed in one of them and then fell prone before him.

The one trans�xed just stared, said nothing. Indeed, with his feet stock-still, he yawned, as if deep sleep or fever had assailed him.

He and the reptile stared at one another. Both gave out dense smoke, one from its wound, the other from its mouth. Then their smoke merged.

Let Lucan now fall silent where he tells   → of poor Sabellus and Nasidius, and let him wait to hear what comes forth now!

Let Ovid not speak of Cadmus or Arethusa, for if his poem turns him into a serpent and her into a fountain, I grudge it not,

for never did he change two natures, face to face, in such a way that both their forms were quite so quick exchanging substance.

Their corresponding changes went like this:   → the reptile split its tail into a fork and he that was wounded drew his feet together.

First his calves and then his thighs began to knit so that in but a moment no sign of a division could be seen.

The cloven tail assumed the shapes

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the other one was losing, and his skin was turning soft while the other’s hardened.

I saw the man’s arms shrinking toward the armpits and the brute’s forepaws, which had been short, lengthen, precisely as the other’s dwindled.

Then the hind-paws, twisting together, became the member that a man conceals, and from his own the wretch had grown two paws.

While the smoke veils one and now the other with new color and grows hair here and elsewhere strips it o�,

one of them rose to his feet, the other fell, but neither turned aside his baleful glare under which each muzzle changed its shape.

In the one erect it shrank in to the temples, and, from the excess �esh absorbed, two ears extruded from smooth cheeks.

That which did not recede, the remnant of that excess, made a nose for the face and gave the lips a proper thickness.

The one prone on the ground shoves out his snout and draws his ears into his head as a snail draws in its horns,

and his tongue, till now a single thing and �t for speech, divides, and the other’s forked tongue joins, and the smoke stops.

The soul just now become a brute takes �ight, hissing through the hollow, and the other,

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by way of speaking, spits after him.

Then he turned his new-made shoulders and he said   → to the third: ‘I want Buoso to run, as I have done, down on all fours along this road.’

Thus I saw the seventh rabble change and change again, and let the newness of it be my excuse if my pen has gone astray.   →

And though my eyes were dazed and my mind somewhat bewildered, these sinners could not �ee so stealthily

but I with ease discerned that Puccio Lameshanks,   → and he alone, of the three companions in that group, remained unchanged. The other, Gaville, was the one whom you lament.   →

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OUTLINE: INFERNO XXVI

ironic apostrophe of Florence narrative rejoined: climbing out of the seventh bolgia Dante’s reaction to the denizens of the next bolgia simile (1): peasant and �re�ies simile (2): Elisha/Elijah’s chariot: Dante/�ames narrative: Dante’s intense reaction Virgil: the relation between �ame and sinner Dante: but what about that double �ame? Virgil: the causes of the damnation of these two Dante’s eagerness to speak with them Virgil’s approval, but only he will speak Virgil addresses Ulysses and Diomedes the greater �ame prepares to speak: leaving Circe but not going home setting forth and the places left behind Ulysses’ oration to his men and their reaction the beginning of the last voyage the destination, after �ve months: the mountain storm and death

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INFERNO XXVI

Take joy, oh Florence, for you are so great   → your wings beat over land and sea, your fame resounds through Hell!

Among the thieves, I found �ve citizens of yours who make me feel ashamed, and you are raised by them to no great praise.

But if as morning nears we dream the truth,   → it won’t be long before you feel the pain   → that Prato, to name but one, desires for you.

Were it already come, it would not be too soon. But let it come, since come indeed it must, and it will weigh the more on me the more I age.

We left that place and, on those stairs that turned us pale when we came down,   → my leader now climbed back and drew me up.

And as we took our solitary way among the juts and crags of the escarpment, our feet could not advance without our hands.

I grieved then and now I grieve again   → as my thoughts turn to what I saw, and more than is my way, I curb my powers

lest they run on where virtue fail to guide them, so that, if friendly star or something better still has granted me its boon, I don’t misuse the gift.

As when a peasant, resting on a hillside—   →

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in the season when he who lights the world least hides his face from us,

at the hour when the �y gives way to the mosquito— sees �re�ies that glimmer in the valley where perhaps he harvests grapes and ploughs his �elds,

with just so many �ames the eighth crevasse   → was everywhere aglow, as I became aware once I arrived where I could see the bottom.

And as the one who was avenged by bears   → could see Elijah’s chariot taking �ight, when the horses reared and rose to Heaven,

but made out nothing with his eyes except the �ame alone ascending like a cloud into the sky,

so each �ame moves along the gullet of the trench and—though none reveals the theft— each �ame conceals a sinner.

Rising to my feet to look, I stood up   → on the bridge. Had I not grasped a jutting crag, I would have fallen in without a shove.

My leader, when he saw me so intent, said: ‘These spirits stand within the �ames. Each one is wrapped in that in which he burns.’   →

‘Master,’ I replied, ’I am the more convinced to hear you say it. That is what I thought, and had it in my mind to ask you this:

‘Who is in the �ame so riven at the tip   → it could be rising from the pyre

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on which Etèocles was laid out with his brother?’

He replied: ‘Within this �ame �nd torment   → Ulysses and Diomed. They are paired in God’s revenge as once they earned his wrath.

’In their �ame they mourn the stratagem   → of the horse that made a gateway through which the noble seed of Rome came forth.

‘There they lament the wiles for which, in death, Deidamìa mourns Achilles still, and there they make amends for the Palladium.’

‘If they can speak within those �ames,’   → I said, ’I pray you, master, and I pray again— and may my prayer be a thousand strong—

‘do not forbid my lingering awhile until the twin-forked �ame arrives. You see how eagerly I lean in its direction.’

And he to me: ‘Your prayer deserves   → much praise. Therefore, I grant it, but on condition that you hold your tongue.

‘Leave speech to me, for I have understood just what you want. And, since they were Greeks, they might disdain your words.’

Once the �ame had neared, when he thought the time and moment right, I heard my leader speaking in this way:

‘O you who are twinned within a single �re,   → if I have earned your favor while I lived, if I have earned your favor—in whatever measure—

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‘when, in the world, I wrote my lofty verses, then do not move away. Let one of you relate just where, having lost his way, he went to die.’

And the larger horn of that ancient �ame began to murmur and to tremble, like a �ame that is worried by the wind.

Then, brandishing its tip this way and that, as if it were the tongue of �re that spoke, it brought forth a voice and said: ‘When I   →

‘took leave of Circe, who for a year and more beguiled me there, not far from Gaëta, before Aeneas gave that name to it,

‘not tenderness for a son, nor �lial duty   → toward my agèd father, nor the love I owed Penelope that would have made her glad,

‘could overcome the fervor that was mine to gain experience of the world and learn about man’s vices, and his worth.

‘And so I set forth upon the open deep   → with but a single ship and that small band of shipmates who had not deserted me.

‘One shore and the other I saw as far as Spain, Morocco, the island of Sardegna, and other islands set into that sea.

‘I and my shipmates had grown old and slow before we reached the narrow strait where Hercules marked o� the limits,

‘warning all men to go no farther.

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On the right-hand side I left Seville behind, on the other I had left Ceüta.

‘ “O brothers,” I said, “who, in the course   → of a hundred thousand perils, at last have reached the west, to such brief wakefulness

‘ “of our senses as remains to us, do not deny yourselves the chance to know— following the sun—the world where no one lives.

’ “Consider how your souls were sown:   → you were not made to live like brutes or beasts, but to pursue virtue and knowledge.”

‘With this brief speech I had my companions   → so ardent for the journey I could scarce have held them back.

‘And, having set our stern to sunrise,   → in our mad �ight we turned our oars to wings, always gaining on the left.

‘Now night was gazing on the stars that light   → the other pole, the stars of our own so low they did not rise above the ocean �oor.

‘Five times the light beneath the moon had been rekindled and as often been put out since we began our voyage on the deep,

‘when we could see a mountain, distant, dark and dim. In my sight it seemed higher than any I had ever seen.

‘We rejoiced, but joy soon turned to grief:   → for from that unknown land there came   →

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a whirlwind that struck the ship head-on.

‘Three times it turned her and all the waters   → with her. At the fourth our stern reared up, the prow went down—as pleased Another— until the sea closed over us.’   →

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79–84    85–111    112–123    124–129   

1–6    7–15    16–18    19–30    31–33    34–54    55–57    58–66    67–129   

130–132    133–136   

OUTLINE: INFERNO XXVII

one �ame departs, another comes simile: the new �ame as brazen Sicilian bull Guido da Montefeltro: his di�culty producing words Guido questions Virgil about Romagna Virgil directs Dante to speak to his fellow Italian Dante reports on Romagna’s troubled present Dante o�ers fame in exchange for Guido’s identity Guido agrees because he believes Dante is damned Guido’s autobiography:

soldier, friar, dupe of Boniface the covert ways of “the fox” are renowned old age and his failure to furl his sails Boniface’s stratagem, Guido’s evil advice his death; Francis and the fallen Cherub Guido’s descent to the underworld

the departure of Guido’s �ame-covered shade the poets move to the bridge over the ninth bolgia

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INFERNO XXVII

The �ame now stood erect and still,   → meaning to speak no more, and was departing with the gentle poet’s leave,   →

when another �ame, coming close behind,   → caused our eyes to �x upon its tip, drawn by the gibberish that came from it.

As the Sicilian bull that bellowed �rst   → with the cries of him whose instrument had fashioned it—and that was only just—

used to bellow with the victim’s voice so that, although the bull was made of brass, it seemed trans�xed by pain,

thus, having �rst no course or outlet through the �ame, the mournful words were changed into a language all their own.

But once the words had made their way   → up to the tip, making it �icker as the voice had done when it had formed them,

we heard it say: ‘O you at whom I aim my voice   → and who, just now, said in the Lombard tongue: “Now go your way, I ask you nothing more,”

‘though I’ve arrived, perhaps, a little late, let it not trouble you to stay and speak with me. Though I am in the �ame, as you can see, it irks me not.

‘If you are only a short while fallen   →

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into this blind world from that sweet land of Italy, from which I bring down all my sins,

‘tell me if Romagna lives in peace or war.   → I came from where the mountains stand between Urbino and the ridge from which the Tiber springs.’

I still stood bending down to hear, when my leader nudged my side and said: ‘It’s up to you to speak—this one is Italian.’   →

And I, who had my answer ready, without delay began to speak: ‘O soul that is hidden from my sight down there,

‘your Romagna is not, and never was,   → free of warfare in her rulers’ hearts. Still, no open warfare have I left behind.

‘Ravenna remains as it has been for years.   → The eagle of Polenta broods over it so that he covers Cervia with his wings.

‘The town that once withstood the lengthy siege, making of the French a bloody heap, is now again beneath the green claws of the lion.

‘The elder masti� of Verrucchio and the younger, who between them had harsh dealing with Montagna, sharpen their teeth to augers in the customary place.

‘The young lion on a �eld of white, who rules Lamone’s and Santerno’s cities, changes sides between the summer and the snows.

‘And the city whose �ank the Savio bathes: as she lives between tyranny and freedom,

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so she lies between the mountain and the plain.

‘But now, I beg you, tell us who you are.   → Be no more grudging than another’s been to you, so may your name continue in the world.’

When the �re had done its roaring for a while, after its fashion, the point began to quiver this way and that, and then gave breath to this:

‘If I but thought that my response were made   → to one perhaps returning to the world, this tongue of �ame would cease to �icker.

‘But since, up from these depths, no one has yet returned alive, if what I hear is true, I answer without fear of being shamed.

‘A warrior was I, and then a corded friar,   → thinking, cinctured so, to make amends. And surely would my hopes have come to pass

‘but for the Great Priest—the devil take him!—   → who drew me back to my old ways. And I would like to tell you how and why.

‘While I still kept the form in �esh and bones my mother gave me, my deeds were not a lion’s but the actions of a fox.   →

‘Cunning stratagems and covert schemes, I knew them all, and was so skilled in them my fame rang out to the far con�nes of the earth.

‘When I saw I had reached that stage of life   → when all men ought to think of lowering sail and coiling up the ropes,

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‘I grew displeased with what had pleased me once.   → Repentant and shriven, I became a friar. And woe is me! it would have served.

‘But he, Prince of the latter-day Pharisees,   → engaged in battle near the Lateran and not with either Saracen or Jew,

‘for all his enemies were Christian— not one of them had gone to conquer Acre or tra�c in the Sultan’s lands—

‘paid no heed, for his part, to the highest o�ce or his holy orders, nor, for mine, to the cord that used to keep its wearers lean.

‘As Constantine once had Sylvester summoned   → from Soracte to cure his leprous sores, so this man called on me to be his doctor

‘and cure him of the fever of his pride. He asked me for advice, but I kept silent because his words were like a drunkard’s words.

‘And then he spoke again: “Let not your heart mistrust: I absolve you here and now if you will teach me how I can bring Praeneste to the ground.   →

‘ “I have the power, as well you know, to lock   → and unlock Heaven, because the keys are two for which the pope before me had no care.”

‘His threatening tactics brought me to the point   → at which the worse course seemed the one of silence. And so I said: “Father, since you cleanse me

‘ “of the sin that I must even now commit:

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Promising much with scant observance will seal your triumph on the lofty throne.”

‘The moment I was dead, Francis came for me.   → But one of the dark Cherubim cried out: “No, wrong me not by bearing that one o�.

‘ “He must come down to serve among my minions because he gave that fraudulent advice.   → From then till now I’ve dogged his footsteps.

‘ “One may not be absolved without repentance,   → nor repent and wish to sin concurrently— a simple contradiction not allowed.”

‘Oh, wretch that I am, how I shuddered when he seized me and said: “Perhaps you didn’t reckon I’d be versed in logic.”

‘He carried me to Minos, who coiled his tail   → eight times around his scaly back and, having gnawed it in his awful rage,

‘said: “Here comes a sinner for the thieving �re.” And so, just as you see me, I am damned,   → cloaked as I am. And as I go, I grieve.’

Once he had brought his words to this conclusion, the weeping �ame departed, twisting and tossing its pointed horn.

We continued on our way, my guide and I, over the ridge and up the arch that spans the ditch where those are paid their due who, for disjoining, gather up their load.

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46–51    52–54    55–60    61–63    64–69    70–75    76–90    91–93    94–102    103–111    112–117    118–126    127–138    139–142   

OUTLINE: INFERNO XXVIII

a self-conscious (Virgilian) opening simile: corpses on the �elds of Puglia simile: gaping cask and Mohammed the physical appearance of Mohammed Mohammed identi�es himself and then Alì the nature of their sin: schism the nature of their punishment by a devil Mohammed wants to know the reason Dante is damned Virgil responds that he, dead, leads Dante, alive wonderment of the other shades Mohammed’s advice for Fra Dolcino Mohammed’s foot had been suspended while he spoke Pier da Medicina: his dis�gurement his salute of Dante and desire to be remembered his warning to the “two best men of Fano” Dante’s curiosity about another shade Pier reveals Curio Mosca reveals himself; Dante’s curses; his retreat Dante’s good conscience in relating the incredible the description of decapitated Bertran de Born Bertran reveals himself as an instigator of discord Bertran and the law of contrapasso

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INFERNO XXVIII

Who, even in words not bound by meter,   → and having told the tale many times over, could tell the blood and wounds that I saw now?

Surely every tongue would fail, for neither thought nor speech has the capacity to hold so much.

Could all the wounded troops again assemble:   → �rst from Apulia, land laid low by war, who grieved for their lost blood   →

shed by the Trojans, then all those of the long war, whose corpses were despoiled of piles of rings—as Livy writes, who does not err—   →

together with the ones who felt the agony of blows   → �ghting in the �elds against Guiscard, and those whose bones still lie in heaps   →

at Ceperano, where each Apulian played it false, and those near Tagliacozzo,   → where old Alardo conquered without force of arms:

and should one show his limb pierced through,   → another his, where it has been cut o�, it would be nothing to the ninth pit’s �lth.

No cask ever gapes so wide for loss   → of mid- or side-stave as the soul I saw cleft from the chin right down to where men fart.

Between the legs the entrails dangled. I saw

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the innards and the loathsome sack that turns what one has swallowed into shit.

While I was caught up in the sight of him, he looked at me and, with his hands, ripped apart his chest, saying: ‘See how I rend myself,

‘see how mangled is Mohammed! Ahead of me proceeds Alì, in tears,   → his face split open from his chin to forelock.

‘And all the others whom you see sowed scandal and schism while they lived,   → and that is why they here are hacked asunder.

‘A devil’s posted there behind us   → who dresses us so cruelly, putting each of this crew again to the sword

‘as soon as we have done our doleful round. For all our wounds have closed when we appear again before him.

‘But who are you to linger on the ridge?—   → perhaps you put o� going to the torment pronounced on your own accusation.’

‘Death does not have him yet nor does his guilt lead him to torment,’ replied my master, ‘but to give him greater knowledge

‘I, who am dead indeed, must shepherd him from circle to circle, through this Hell down here. And this is as true as that I speak to you.’

On hearing this, more than a hundred souls halted in the ditch to stare at me

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in wonder, each forgetful of his pain.

‘You, who perhaps will shortly see the sun,   → warn Fra Dolcino to provide himself— unless he’d like to join me here quite soon—

‘with stocks of victuals, lest the siege of snow hand the Novarese the victory not otherwise so easy to attain.’

One foot raised, halted in mid-stride,   → Mohammed spoke these words, then setting down that foot, went on his way.

Another, with his throat pierced through and nose hacked o� just where the brows begin,   → and only one ear left upon his head,

stopped with the rest of them to gape in wonder and, before the others did, opened his windpipe,   → scarlet on the skin side as it was,

to say: ‘O you whom guilt does not condemn   → and whom I saw above in Italy, if in your likeness I am not deceived,

‘should you ever see that gentle plain again that slopes from Vercelli down to Marcabò, for Pier da Medicina spare a thought.

‘And let the two chief men of Fano know,   → both messer Guido and Angiolello, that, unless our foresight here is vain,

‘through a brutal tyrant’s treachery near La Cattolica they shall be heaved out of their ship with weights to hold them down.

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‘Between the islands of Cyprus and Majorca   → Neptune never witnessed so terrible a crime, whether one committed by pirates or by Greeks.

‘That traitor, who sees through one eye only   → and rules the city that another down here with me would take delight in never having seen,

‘will have the men of Fano come to parley and he will so deal with them that, to ply   → Focara’s wind, they’ll need no vows or prayers.’

And I: ‘Point out to me and make him known,   → if you would have me carry news of you above, the one to whom that city’s sight was bitter.’

Then he laid his hand upon the jaw of one of his companions, pried his lips apart, and cried: ‘Here he is, but he won’t speak.   →

‘Banished, he quenched the doubt in Caesar, a�rming that, to a man prepared, delay was always harmful.’

Ah, how distressed he seemed to me, with his tongue sliced o� so deep in his throat, Curio, who had been so bold in speech!

And then another whose hands had been chopped o�,   → raising his stumps up in the murky air so that the blood from them befouled his face,

cried out: ‘Surely you’ll remember Mosca also, who said, alas: “A done deed �nds its purpose.” For Tuscany, that was an evil seed.’

‘And death to your own stock,’ I added then.   →

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At that, one sorrow piled upon another, he made o�, like a man berserk with grief.

But I stayed on to watch the troop and saw a thing I would be loath to mention without further proof,

were I not comforted by conscience,   → the bosom friend that forti�es a man beneath the armor of an honest heart.

I truly saw, and seem to see it still, a headless body make its way like all the others in that dismal �ock.

And by its hair he held his severed head swinging in his hand as if it were a lantern. The head stared at us and said: ‘Oh, woe!’

Of himself he made himself a lamp, and they were two in one and one in two. How this can be He knows who so ordains it.

When he was just at the foot of the bridge he raised his arm high and, with it, that head, so as to make his words sound more distinct:

‘You, who view the dead with breath yet in your body,   → look upon my grievous punishment. Is any other terrible as this?

‘So you may carry back the news of me, know I am Bertran de Born, the one who urged the young king on with bad advice.

‘Father and son I set to enmity. Ahithophel stirred no worse ill between

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Absalom and David with his wicked goading.

‘Because I severed persons thus conjoined, severed, alas, I carry my own brain from its starting-point here in my body. In me you may observe �t punishment.’   →

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OUTLINE: INFERNO XXIX

Dante longs to remain in order to weep Virgil’s rebuke: why do you wish to stay on here? Virgil on the space and time left for the journey Dante: had you understood my motive, you might have let me stay longer—I was looking for a relative Virgil: I saw him there threatening you while you were occupied with Bertran de Born Dante: what you say makes me pity him the more �rst dim view of the bolgia Dante covers his ears so as not to feel pity similes: hospitals (both eye and nose) a closer view reveals the falsi�ers simile: plague in Aegina comparisons:

they sit leaning on one another like pans; they scratch as stableboys curry horses; their nails are like knives scaling �sh

Virgil addresses a sinner: Are there Italians here? Gri�olino of Arezzo: We both are; who are you? Virgil: I lead this living man through hell they are thunderstruck at such a presence; Virgil’s advice to Dante; Dante’s promise of fame Gri�olino: I died at the hands of Albero of Siena, not for alchemy, but for failed magicianship Dante: the French are not as vain as the Sienese Capocchio (ironically): Sienese exceptions Capocchio’s own sins in alchemy

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INFERNO XXIX

The many people and their ghastly wounds   → did so intoxicate my eyes that I was moved to linger there and weep.

But Virgil said: ‘What are you staring at?   → Why is your gaze so �xed upon the depths that hold those mournful, mutilated shades?

‘You have not done so at the other pits. In case you plan to count the sinners one by one,   → think: this hollow circles twenty-two miles round.

‘The moon already lies beneath our feet.   → The time we are allotted soon expires   → and there is more to see than you see here.’

‘Had you understood,’ I was quick to answer,   → ‘the reason for my close inspection, perhaps you would have let me stay there longer.’

All the while my guide was moving on, with me, intent on my reply, behind him. And then I added: ‘Within that hole

‘where I had �xed my gaze, I do believe I saw someone of my own blood lament the sin that costs so dear down there.’

Then the master said: ‘Trouble your mind   → no more because of him. Turn it to other things and let him be,

‘for I saw him there below the bridge,

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pointing his �nger at you, �erce with threats, and I heard him called Geri del Bello.

‘Just then you were so thoroughly engrossed in him who once was lord of Hautefort you did not glance that way before your kinsman left.’

‘O my leader, the violent death he died,   → for which no vengeance has been taken yet,’ I said, ‘by any person partner to his shame,

‘made him indignant. That is why he went away without addressing me—or so I think— and why he’s made me pity him the more.’

Thus we continued talking till we reached   → the �rst point on the ridge that could have shown the next pit’s bottom, had there been more light.

When we stood above the �nal cloister   → of Malebolge and all of its lay brothers became discernible to us,

strange arrows of lament, their shafts, with pity at their tips, pierced me, so that I pressed my hands against my ears.

If the contagion of every hospital   → in Valdichiana, from July until September, and in the Maremma and Sardegna, were amassed

in one malarial ditch, just such su�ering was in that place. And from it rose the stench of festering limbs.

We came down, always to our left, and reached   → the last bank of the lengthy crag.

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And then my eyes could have a better view   →

into the pit, there where the minister of God on high, unerring justice, punishes the counterfeiters whom she here records.

I think it could have been no greater sorrow   → to see the people of Aegina stricken, with such corruption in the very air

that every animal, even the smallest worm, perished, and, later, as the poets hold for certain, these ancient people were restored to life,

hatched from the eggs of ants— no greater sorrow, than in that somber valley to see those spirits, heaped on one another, languishing.

Some lay upon the bellies or the backs of others, still others dragged themselves on hands and knees along that gloomy path.

Step by step we went ahead in silence, looking and listening to the stricken spirits, who could not raise their bodies from the ground.

Two I saw seated, propped against each other   → as pans are propped to warm before the �re, each of them blotched with scabs from head to foot.

And never did I see a stable-boy, with his master waiting, nor youth whose chore keeps him from sleep, ply his curry-comb

more hurriedly than each one clawed his nails across his skin because of that mad itch, which knows no other remedy,

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and their nails tore o� those scabs as a knife strips scales from bream or other �sh with even larger scales.

‘You there, stripping o� your coat of mail,’   → began my leader, addressing one of them, ‘and sometimes making pincers of your �ngers,

‘tell us whether, among those gathered here, any are Italian, so may your nails last you in this task for all eternity.’

‘We whom you see so blasted are Italian,’ answered one of them, through his tears, ‘but who are you, that you inquire of us?’

And my leader: ‘I am one who makes his way down with this living man from ledge to ledge. And my intention is to show him Hell.’

They stopped propping one another up and each one, trembling, turned in my direction, as others did who’d overheard those words.

The good master drew up close to me, saying, ‘Ask them what you will.’ And I began, since this had been his wish:

‘So that your memory may not fade away from minds of men in the world above but live on yet for many suns to come,

‘tell me who you are, and where you hail from. Do not let your foul and sickening torment keep you from telling me your names.’

And one of them replied: ‘I was of Arezzo.   →

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Albero of Siena had me burned alive. But what I died for does not bring me here.

‘It is true I said to him in jest: “I do know how to rise into the air and �y!” And he, who had the will but not the wit,

‘asked me to show him how. And just because I failed to make him Daedalus, he had me set on �re by one who took him as his son.

‘But Minos, incapable of error, damned me to the last of these ten ditches for the alchemy I practiced in the world.’

And I said to the poet: ‘Were people ever   → quite so fatuous as are the Sienese? Why, not even the French can match them!’

Whereupon the other leper, hearing me,   → replied: ‘Except, of course for Stricca— he knew how to moderate his spending—

‘and for Niccolò—the �rst one to devise a costly use for cloves, there in the garden where such seeds take root—

‘and for that band in whose company Caccia d’Asciano squandered his vineyards and his �elds, and Abbagliato showed his wit.

‘But, to let you know who’s in your camp against the Sienese, look close at me so that my face itself may answer you.

‘You will see I am the shade of Capocchio,   → who altered metal by means of alchemy.

139 And, if you are the man I take you for, you will recall how good an ape I was of nature.’

1–12    13–21    22–27   

1–27   

28–33    34–36    37–45    46–57    58–75    76–90    91–93    94–99    100–129    130–132    133–135    136–141    142–148   

OUTLINE: INFERNO XXX

opening double simile: (Juno vs. Thebes): Athamas (Fortuna vs. Troy): Hecuba Gianni Schicchi and Myrrha

Gri�olino identi�es Gianni, attacking Capocchio Dante asks Gri�olino about the second shade Gri�olino: Myrrha became another, as did Gianni Dante observes a lute-shaped sinner Master Adam: his dropsical thirst; his sin Master Adam: his desires for revenge Dante: who are those “wet hands in winter”? Master Adam: Potiphar’s wife and Sinon Sinon and Master Adam: battle of blows and words Dante �xed upon their quarrel; Virgil’s rebuke Dante’s shame simile: dreamer dreaming he’s not dreaming Virgil’s acceptance of Dante’s blush

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INFERNO XXX

Once when Juno, furious with Semele,   → vented her rage against the house of Thebes, as she had done on more than one occasion,

Athamas went so raving mad that when he saw his wife come near with both their children, holding one on this arm, one on that,

he shouted: “Let’s spread the nets so I can trap the lioness with her cubs as they go past!” Then he reached out and with pitiless claws

he seized the one who was called Learchus, whirled him round and dashed him on a rock. At that she drowned herself with her other burden.

And when Fortune had subdued the haughty,   → all-daring spirit of the Trojans, so that both king and kingdom were brought low,

Hecuba—wretched, sorrowing, a captive— when she saw Polyxena slaughtered and, grieving woman, when she saw

Polydorus lying dead upon the shore, went mad and started barking like a dog, so greatly had her grief deranged her mind.

But no Theban crazed with rage—   → or Trojan—did ever seem as cruel in rending beasts, much less human parts,

as did two pallid, naked shades I saw,

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snapping their jaws as they rushed up like swine charging from an opened sty.

The one came at Capocchio, set its tusks   → into his neck, then dragged him so his belly scraped the rock-hard ground.

And the Aretine, who stood there, trembling, said to me: ‘That demon’s Gianni Schicchi, and in his rabid rage he mauls the others.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘so may that other not �x its teeth in you, be kind enough to tell me just who it is before it runs away.’

And he answered: ‘That is the ancient soul   → of wicked Myrrha, who became enamored of her father with more than lawful love.

‘She contrived to sin with him by taking on another person’s shape, as did that other, eager to decamp,   →

‘to gain the queen mule of the herd, take on the shape of Buoso Donati, drawing up a will and giving it due form.’

When those two frenzied shades, on whom   → I’d �xed my eyes, had hurried o�, I turned to look at others born for sorrow.

One I saw, fashioned like a lute—   → had he been sundered at the groin from the joining where a man goes forked.

The heavy dropsy, which a�icts the body   → with its ill-digesting humor

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so that the face and belly do not match,

forced his lips to draw apart as a person parched with hectic fever curls one lip to his chin and twists the other up.

‘O you who go unpunished here—I know not why—   → through this world of misery,’ he said, ‘behold and then consider

‘the su�ering of Master Adam. Alive, I had in plenty all I wanted. And now I crave a single drop of water!

‘The streams that, in the Casentino,   → run down along green hillsides to the Arno, keeping their channels cool and moist,

‘�ow before my eyes forever, and not in vain, because their image makes me thirst still more than does the malady that wastes my features.

‘The rigid justice that torments me employs the landscape where I sinned to make my sighs come faster.

‘In those parts lies Romena, where I forged the coinage stamped with John the Baptist. For that I left my body burned above.

‘If I could only see down here the wretched souls   → of Guido, Alessandro, or their brother, I’d not give up that sight for Fonte Branda.

‘One of them is here with us already,   → if the furious shades who move about don’t lie. What good is that to me whose limbs are bound?

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‘If I were only light enough to budge   → a single inch each hundred years, I would by now have started on my way

‘to seek him out in this pit’s bloated shapes, even though it runs eleven miles around and spreads not less than half a mile across.

‘It is their fault that I have such companions,   → for it was they who made me strike the �orins that held three carats’ worth of dross.’

And I to him: ‘Who are these two wretches who steam as wet hands do in winter and lie so very near you on your right?’

‘I found them when I rained into this trough,’ he said, ‘and even then they did not move about, nor do I think they will for all eternity.

‘One is the woman who lied accusing Joseph,   → the other is false Sinon, the lying Greek from Troy. Putrid fever makes them reek with such a stench.’

And one of them, who took o�ense, perhaps   → at being named so vilely, hit him with a �st right on his rigid paunch.

It boomed out like a drum. Then Master Adam, whose arm seemed just as sturdy, used it, striking Sinon in the face,

saying: ‘Although I cannot move about because my legs are heavy, my arm is loose enough for such a task.’

To which the other answered: ‘When they put you

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to the �re, your arm was not so nimble, though it was quick enough when you were coining.’

And the dropsied one: ‘Well, that is true, but you were hardly such a truthful witness when you were asked to tell the truth at Troy.’

‘If I spoke falsely, you falsi�ed the coin,’   → said Sinon, ‘and I am here for one o�ense alone, but you for more than any other devil!’

‘You perjurer, keep the horse in mind,’   → replied the sinner with the swollen paunch, ‘and may it pain you that the whole world knows.’

‘And may you su�er from the thirst,’ the Greek replied, ‘that cracks your tongue, and from the fetid humor that turns your belly to a hedge before your eyes!’

Then the forger: ‘And so, as usual, your mouth gapes open from your fever. If I am thirsty, and swollen by this humor,   →

‘you have your hot spells and your aching head. For you to lick the mirror of Narcissus would not take much by way of invitation.’

I was all intent in listening to them, when the master said: ‘Go right on looking   → and it is I who’ll quarrel with you.’

When I heard him speak to me in anger I turned and faced him with a shame that circles in my memory even now.

As a man who dreams that he is being harmed   → and, even as he dreams, hopes he is dreaming,

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longing for what is, as though it weren’t—

so it was with me, deprived of speech: I longed to seek his pardon—and all the while I did so without knowing that I did.

‘Less shame would cleanse a greater fault than yours,’   → my master said, ‘and that is why you may set down the load of such remorse.

‘Do not forget I’m always at your side should it fall out again that fortune take you where people are in wrangles such as this. For the wish to hear such things is base.’

1–6    7–18    19–21    22–33   

34–39    40–45    46–48    49–57    58–66    67–69    70–75    76–81    82–90    91–96    97–99    100–105    106–111    112–114    115–129   

130–135    136–140    141–144    145   

OUTLINE: INFERNO XXXI

simile: Virgil’s tongue, Achilles’ lance leaving Malebolge: the horn in the gloom (Roland) Satan’s “walled city”: Dante’s misperception Virgil: soon you will see the cause of your error; let me tell you now: those are giants, not towers simile: lifting mist simile: Monteriggione the �rst giant (Nimrod) digression: nature’s benevolent cessation Nimrod’s bulk, face to belly Nimrod’s words Virgil’s response: blow your horn Virgil: Nimrod and the confusion of tongues Ephialtes in chains Virgil: Ephialtes and the assault on Olympus Dante: and where is Briareus? Virgil: unbound Antaeus is next; Briareus further on Ephialtes shakes with rage; Dante’s fear arrival before Antaeus Virgil’s captatio of Antaeus: his prowess; do not make us proceed to Tityus or Typhon Antaeus holding Virgil holding Dante simile: the Garisenda tower of Bologna Dante, fearful but safe, arrives on �oor of hell comparison: Antaeus as raised mast of ship

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INFERNO XXXI

The same tongue that had stung me   → so that both my cheeks turned red, had also brought my cure,

just as the spear of Achilles and his father— so I have heard it told—would be the cause �rst of a painful, then a welcome, gift.

We turned our backs upon that dismal valley,   → �rst climbing up the bank that circles it, then crossing over, while speaking not a word.

Here it was less than night and less than day— I could not see too far ahead. But I heard a horn-blast that would have made

the loudest thunderclap seem faint. To �nd its source I turned my eyes back to the place from which the din had come.

After the woeful rout when Charlemagne   → had lost his holy band of knights, Roland did not sound so terrible a blast.

I had not looked that way for long   → when I saw what seemed a range of lofty towers, and I said: ‘Master, tell me, what city is this?’

And he to me: ‘Because you try to pierce the darkness from too far away, it follows that you err in your perception.

‘When you are nearer, you will understand

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how much your eyesight is deceived by distance. Therefore, push yourself a little harder.’

Then with a�ection he took me by the hand   → and said: ‘Before we travel farther, and so the fact may seem to you less strange,

‘you should be told: these are not towers, but giants and, from the navel down, each stands behind the bank that rings the pit.’

As, when the mist is lifting,   → little by little we discern things hidden in the air made thick by fog,

so, when my eyes saw through the heavy dark and I got nearer to the brink, error left me and fear came in its place.

For, as all around her ring of walls   → Monteriggioni is crowned with towers, so at the cli�-edge that surrounds the pit

loomed up like towers half the body bulk of horrifying giants, those whom Jove still threatens from the heavens when he thunders.

Now I could discern the face of one, his chest and shoulders, a portion of his paunch, and, hanging at his sides, his arms.

Surely nature did well when she renounced   → the craft of making creatures such as these, depriving Mars of such practitioners.

If she does not repent her elephants and whales, when one reviews the matter closely

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she will be found more cautious and more just.

For when the power of thought is coupled with ill will and naked force there is no refuge from it for mankind.

His face appeared to me as long and broad   → as is, in Rome, the pine cone at St. Peter’s, his other parts as large in like degree,

so that the bank, which hid him like an apron from his middle downwards, still showed so much of him above that quite in vain

three Frieslanders might boast of having reached his hair. For I saw thirty spans of him beneath the place where men make fast their cloaks.

‘Raphèl maì amècche zabì almi,’   → the savage mouth, for which no sweeter psalms were �t, began to shout.   →

And, in response, my leader: ‘You muddled soul,   → stick to your horn! Vent yourself with that when rage or other passion takes you.

‘Search at your neck, you creature of confusion, and you will �nd the rope that holds the horn aslant your mammoth chest.’

Then he to me: ‘He is his own accuser. This is Nimrod, because of whose vile plan the world no longer speaks a single tongue.

‘Let us leave him and not waste our speech, for every language is to him as his to others, and his is understood by none.’

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Then, turning to our left, we continued with our journey. A bowshot farther on we found the next one, bigger and more savage.   →

Now who had plied his craft to bind him so I cannot say, but his right arm was bound behind him, the other one in front,

by chains that from the neck down held him �xed. They wound �ve times around his bulk on the part of him that we could see.

‘This prideful spirit chose to test his strength   → against almighty Jove,’ my leader said, ‘and this is his reward.

‘He is Ephialtes. He joined the great assault when giants put the gods in fear. Those arms he brandished he can move no more.’

And I to him: ‘If it is allowed,   → I’d like to see with my own eyes Briareus and his immeasurable bulk.’

He replied: ‘It is Antaeus you shall see. He is close by, he speaks, he is not fettered. And he shall set us down into the very depth of sin.

‘The one you want to see is farther on, in fetters also, shaped like this one here, except that from his looks he seems more �erce.’

Never did mighty earthquake shake a tower with such great speed and force as Ephialtes shook himself at that.   →

Then more than ever I was afraid of dying:

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my fear alone would have su�ced to bring it on, had I not noted how tightly he was bound.

Going farther on, we came upon Antaeus. Without the added measure of his head,   → he stood a full �ve ells above the pit.

‘O you, who—in the fateful valley   → that made Scipio an heir to glory, when Hannibal with all his men displayed their backs—

‘you, who took as prey a thousand lions, and by whose strength, it seems some do believe, had you been at the war on Heaven with your brethren,

‘the sons of earth would have prevailed— pray set us down, do not disdain to do so, upon Cocytus, shackled by the cold.

‘Don’t make us go to Tityus or Typhon. This man can give what everyone here longs for.   → Therefore bend down and do not curl your lip.

‘He still can make you famous in the world, because he lives, and hopes for years of living, if Grace does not recall him sooner than his time.’

Thus spoke the master. The other was quick to reach out with his hands—the mighty grip once felt by Hercules—and seized my guide.

Virgil, when he felt himself secured, said: ‘Here, let me take hold of you!’ Then he made a single bundle of himself and me.

As when one sees the tower called Garisenda   → from underneath its leaning side, and then a cloud

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passes over and it seems to lean the more,

thus did Antaeus seem to my �xed gaze as I watched him bend—that was indeed a time I wished that I had gone another road.

Even so, he set us gently on the bottom   → that swallows Lucifer with Judas. Nor in stooping did he linger   → but, like a ship’s mast rising, so he rose.

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OUTLINE: INFERNO XXXII

the poet’s disclaimer second invocation of the poem apostrophe of the denizens of all Cocytus

i. Caïna  (kindred) beneath the giants’ feet: a mysterious voice Dante turns to gaze at frozen “lake” simile: neither Danube nor Don ices so thickly simile: frogs’ snouts out of water the sinners’ teeth chatter, their heads tilted down two intertwined sinners, glued together by tears another (Camicione de’ Pazzi) informs Dante: the two are Alessandro and Napoleone degli Alberti; also here: Mordred, Focaccia, Sassol Mascheroni; Sassol’s relative (Carlino de’ Pazzi) coming soon

ii. Antenora (country or party) moving toward the center, Dante kicks a head Bocca’s complaint; Dante wants to converse the nasty exchange between Dante and Bocca Dante pulls his hair, Bocca still resists, only to be betrayed by Buoso da Duera Dante: now I can name you above Bocca informs on others for Dante to reveal two in one hole, the one gnawing the other’s nape similes: eating bread; Tydeus chewing head Dante o�ers one of the sinners (Ugolino) a deal

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INFERNO XXXII

If I had verses harsh enough and rasping   → as would be�t this dismal hole upon which all the other rocks weigh down,

more fully would I press out the juice of my conception. But, since I lack them, with misgiving do I bring myself to speak.

It is no enterprise undertaken lightly— to describe the very bottom of the universe— nor for a tongue that still cries ‘mommy’ and ‘daddy.’

But may those ladies who aided Amphion   → to build the walls of Thebes now aid my verse, that the telling be no di�erent from the fact.

O you misgotten rabble, worse than all the rest,   → who �ll that place so hard to speak of, better had you here been sheep or goats!

When we were down in that ditch’s darkness,   → well below the giant’s feet, my gaze still drawn by the wall above us,

I heard a voice say: ‘Watch where you walk.   → Step so as not to tread upon our heads, the heads of wretched, weary brothers.’

At that I turned to look about.   → Under my feet I saw a lake so frozen that it seemed more glass than water.

Never in winter did the Austrian Danube   →

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nor the far-o� Don, under its frigid sky, cover their currents with so thick a veil

as I saw there. For had Tambernic fallen on it, or Pietrapana, the ice would not have creaked, not even at the edge.

And as frogs squat and croak,   → their snouts out of the water, in the season when peasant women often dream of gleaning,

so shades, ashen with cold, were grieving, trapped in ice up to the place the hue of shame appears, their teeth a-clatter like the bills of storks.

Downturned were all their faces, their mouths   → gave witness to the cold, while from their eyes came testimony of their woeful hearts.

I gazed around a while; then I looked down and saw two shades so shackled to each other their two heads’ hair made but a single skein.

‘Tell me, you with chests pressed close,’ I said, ‘who are you?’ They strained their necks, and, when they had raised their faces,

their eyes, till then moist only to the rims,   → dripped tears down to their lips, and icy air then froze those tears—and them to one another.

Clamp never gripped together board to board so tight, at which such anger overcame them they butted at each other like two rams.

And one of the others, who’d lost both ears to the cold, and kept his face averted, said:

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‘Why do you re�ect yourself so long in us?   →

‘If you would like to know who these two are, the valley out of which Bisenzio �ows belonged once to their father, Albert, and to them.

‘From a single womb they sprang, and though you seek throughout Caïna, you will �nd no shade more �t to be �xed in aspic,

‘not him whose breast and shadow were pierced by a single blow from Arthur’s hand, nor Focaccia, nor the one whose head so blocks

‘my view that I cannot see past him and whose name was Sassol Mascheroni— if you are Tuscan you know well who he was.

‘And, so you coax no further words from me, know that I was Camiscion de’ Pazzi, and I await Carlino for my exculpation.’

After that I saw a thousand faces purple   → with the cold, so that I shudder still— and always will—when I come to a frozen ford.

Then, while we made our way toward the center,   → where all things that have weight converge, and I was shivering in the eternal chill,

if it was will or fate or chance I do not know, but, walking among the heads, I struck my foot hard in the face of one.

Wailing, he cried out: ‘Why trample me?   → Unless you come to add to the revenge for Montaperti, why pick on me?’

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And I: ‘Master, would you wait for just a moment   → so that I may resolve a doubt about this person. And then I’ll make what haste you like.’

My leader stopped, and I said to the shade, who was still shouting bitter curses: ‘And who are you, so to reproach another?’   →

‘No, who are you to go through Antenora,’ he answered, ‘bu�eting another’s cheeks? Were I alive, this still would be an outrage.’

‘Well, I’m alive,’ I said, ‘and if it’s fame you seek, it might turn out to your advantage if I put your name among the others I have noted.’

And he: ‘I long for just the opposite. Take yourself o� and trouble me no more— you ill know how to �atter at this depth.’

Then I grabbed him by the scru� of the neck and said: ‘Either you name yourself or I’ll leave you without a single hair.’

And he: ‘You can peel me bald and I won’t tell you who I am, nor give a hint, even if you jump upon my head a thousand times.’

I now had his hair twisted in my hand and had already plucked a tuft or two, while he howled on, keeping his eyes cast down,

when another cried: ‘What ails you, Bocca? Isn’t it enough, making noise with your jaws, without that howling too? What devil’s at you?’

‘Now you no longer need to say a word,

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vile traitor,’ said I, ‘to your shame shall I bring back true news of you.’

‘Be o�,’ he answered, ‘and tell what tale you will. But don’t be silent, if you escape from here,   → about the one whose tongue was now so nimble.

‘Here he laments the Frenchmen’s silver. “I saw him of Duera,” you can say, “there where they set the sinners out to cool.”

‘And if someone were to ask you: “Who else was there?” beside you is the one from Beccherìa— Florence sawed his throat in two.

‘I think Gianni de’ Soldanier is farther on, with Ganelon and Tebaldello, who opened up Faenza while it slept.’

We had left him behind when I took note   → of two souls so frozen in a single hole the head of one served as the other’s hat.

As a famished man will bite into his bread,   → the one above had set his teeth into the other just where the brain’s stem leaves the spinal cord.

Tydeus gnawed the temples of Melanippus with bitter hatred just as he was doing to the skull and to the other parts.

‘O you, who by so bestial a sign   → show loathing for the one whom you devour, tell me why,’ I said, ‘and let the pact be this:   →

‘if you can give just cause for your complaint, then I, knowing who you are and what his sin is,

139 may yet requite you in the world above, if that with which I speak does not go dry.’

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OUTLINE: INFERNO XXXIII

ii. Antenora [continued] (country or party) a gruesome opening rhetorical �ourish Ugolino’s speech:

Ruggieri the culprit Ugolino’s dream and the children address to Dante Day 1, the door nailed shut Day 2, hunger Day 3, silence Day 4, Gaddo’s cry for help; his death Days 5 and 6, the other three children die Days 6 and 7, grief and death

Ugolino resumes his cannibalistic behavior apostrophe of Pisa as “modern Thebes”

iii. Ptolomea (guests and friends) new assemblage of sinners, faces upturned Dante feels the wind even on his callused face Virgil: soon you will see the wind’s source Fra Alberigo’s request: clear out my iced-over eyes Dante o�ers a bargain that Alberigo accepts Dante: are you already dead? Alberigo’s response Dante: Branca d’Oria is still alive Alberigo: but his and his kinsman’s souls are here again Alberigo asks for aid; Dante does not give it apostrophe of Genoa

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INFERNO XXXIII

He raised his mouth from his atrocious meal,   → that sinner, and wiped it on the hair of the very head he had been ravaging.

Then he began: ‘You ask me to revive   → the desperate grief that racks my heart even in thought, before I tell it.

‘But if my words shall be the seeds that bear infamous fruit to the traitor I am gnawing,   → then you will see me speak and weep together.   →

‘I don’t know who you are, nor by what means you have come down here, but when I listen to you

speak,   → it seems to me you are indeed from Florence.

‘Take note that I was Count Ugolino, and he Archbishop Ruggieri. Let me tell you why I’m such a neighbor to him.

‘How, as consummation of his malicious schemes, after I’d lodged my trust in him, he had me seized and put to death, there is no need to tell.

‘But when you learn what you cannot have heard— that is to say, the cruelty of my death—   → then you shall know if he has wronged me.

‘A little spyhole in the Mew, which now   → on my account is called the Tower of Hunger, where others yet shall be imprisoned,

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‘had through its opening shown me several moons, when, in a dreadful dream,   → the veil was rent, and I foresaw the future.

‘This man appeared to be the lord and master,   → hunting the wolf and wolfcubs on the mountain that hides Lucca from the sight of Pisans.

‘Along with well-trained hounds, lean and eager, he had ranged in his front rank Gualandi, Sismondi, and Lanfranchi.

‘Father and sons, after a brief pursuit, seemed to be �agging, and it seemed to me I saw the �esh torn from their �anks by sharp incisors.

‘When I awoke before the dawn of day   → I heard my children, in that prison with me, weep in their sleep and ask for bread.

‘You are cruel indeed, thinking what my heart   → foretold, if you remain untouched by grief, and if you weep not, what can make you weep?

‘Now they were awake, and the hour drew near at which our food was brought to us. Each of us was troubled by his dream.   →

‘Down below I heard them nailing shut   → the entry to the dreadful tower. I looked my children in the face, without a word.

‘I was so turned to stone inside I did not weep.   → But they were weeping, and my little Anselm said: “You look so strange, father, what’s wrong?”

‘Even then I shed no tear, and made no answer

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all that day, and all the night that followed until the next day’s sun came forth upon the world.

‘As soon as some few rays had made their way into the woeful prison, and I discerned four other faces stamped with my expression,

‘the sorrow of it made me gnaw my hands.   → And they, imagining I was doing this from hunger, rose at once, saying:

‘ “Father, we would su�er less if you would feed on us: you clothed us in this wretched �esh—now strip it o�.”

‘Then, not to increase their grief, I calmed myself.   → That day and the next we did not speak a word. O hard earth, why did you not engulf us?

‘When we had come as far as the fourth day my Gaddo threw himself on the ground before me, crying, “O father, why won’t you help me?”

‘There he died; and even as you see me now I watched the other three die, one by one, on the �fth day and the sixth. And I began,

‘already blind, to grope over their bodies, and for two days called to them, though they were dead.   → Then fasting had more power than grief.’   →

Having said this, with maddened eyes he seized   → that wretched skull again between his teeth and clenched them on the bone just like a dog.

Ah Pisa, how you shame the people   → of that fair land where ‘sì’ is heard!

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Since your neighbors are so slow to punish you,

may the islands of Capraia and Gorgona move in to block the Arno at its mouth and so drown every living soul in you!

Even if Count Ugolino bore the name of traitor to your castles, you still should not have put his children to such torture.

Their tender years, you modern Thebes, made Uguiccione and Brigata innocent, and the other two this canto names above.

We went on farther, to where the ice-crust   → rudely wraps another sort of souls, their faces not turned down but up.

The very weeping there prevents their weeping,   → for the grief that meets a barrier at the eyelids turns inward to augment their anguish,

since their �rst tears become a crust that like a crystal visor �lls the cups beneath the eyebrows.

Although the cold had made   → all feeling leave my face as though it were a callus,

I still could feel a breath of wind. And I said: ‘Master, who sets this in motion? Are not all winds banished here below?’

Thus he to me: ‘You will come soon enough   → to where your eyes will give an answer, seeing the source that puts out such a blast.’

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And one of the wretches in the icy crust   → cried out: ‘O souls, so hard of heart you are assigned the lowest station,

‘lift from my face these rigid veils so I can vent a while the grief that swells my heart, until my tears freeze up again.’

‘If you want my help, let me know your name,’   → I answered. ‘Then, if I do not relieve you, may I have to travel to the bottom of the ice.’

He spoke: ‘I am Fra Alberigo. I am he   → who harvested the evil orchard, and here, for �gs, I am repaid in dates.’

‘Oh,’ said I to him, ‘are you already dead?’ And he to me: ‘I have no knowledge   → how my body fares in the world above.

‘Such privilege has this Ptolomea, that many times a soul may fall down here well before Atropos has cut it loose.

‘So that you may be all the more inclined to scrape these tear-drops glazed upon my face, know that the moment when a soul betrays

‘as I did, its body is taken by a devil, who has it then in his control until the time allotted it has run.

‘The soul falls headlong to this cesspool. Perhaps the body of this shade, who spends   → the winter with me here, still walks the earth,

‘as you must know, if you’ve come down just now.

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He is Branca d’Oria. Quite some years have passed since he was thus con�ned.’

‘I think,’ I said to him, ‘you’re fooling me. For Branca d’Oria is not yet dead: he eats and drinks and sleeps and puts on clothes.’

‘In the ditch above, of the Malebranche,’ he said, ‘where the clingy pitch is at the boil, Michel Zanche had not yet arrived

‘when this man left a devil in his stead to own his body, as did his kinsman, his partner in the treacherous act.

‘But now extend your hand and open   → my eyes for me.’ I did not open them. And to be rude to him was courtesy.

O men of Genoa, race estranged   → from every virtue, crammed with every vice, why have you not been driven from the earth?

With the most heinous spirit of Romagna I found a son of yours who, for his evil deeds, even now in Cocytus bathes his soul while yet his body moves among the living.

1–3    4–7    8–9    10–15    16–21    22–27    28–36    37–45   

46–52    53–54    55–60   

61–67    68–69   

70–81    82–84    85–93    94–96    97–105   

106–126   

127–132    133–139   

OUTLINE: INFERNO XXXIV

iv. Judecca (lords and benefactors) Virgil’s Latin beginning simile: mill seen through fog or twilight Dante retreats behind Virgil to escape the wind the souls here are completely covered by ice Virgil announces Satan and encourages Dante the seventh address to the reader in Inferno Lucifer: his size, his ugliness his three-faced head: white-yellow: Cassius; red: Judas; black: Brutus his six wings, congealing Cocytus tears from his six eyes mix with blood at his chins each of his three jaws chews a sinner; with his talons he �ays the one in the center Virgil identi�es Judas, Brutus, and Cassius Virgil: it is time to depart, we have seen it all

the ascent Dante attaches himself to Virgil; they turn around Virgil’s encouragement: “hold fast” arrival at a ledge; Dante sees Lucifer’s legs above Virgil: it is already 7:30 AM Saturday Dante’s three questions: (1) where’s the ice? (2) why is Lucifer upside down? (3) how is it already morn? Virgil’s responses: (1) behind us; (3) because of where we are; (2) Lucifer’s fall a watercourse leads them gently upward they return to earth, under heaven.

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INFERNO XXXIV

‘Vexilla regis produent inferno   → toward us. Look straight before you and see if you can make him out,’ my master said.

As when a thick mist rises, or when our hemisphere   → darkens to night, one may discern a distant windmill by its turning sails,

it seemed to me I saw such a contrivance. And, to avoid the wind, I drew in close   → behind my leader: there was nowhere else to hide.

Now—and I shudder as I write it out in verse—   → I was where the shades were wholly covered,   → showing through like bits of straw in glass.

Some are lying down, still others stand erect:   → some with their heads, and some with their footsoles, up, some bent like bows, their faces to their toes.

When we had gotten far enough along that my master was pleased to let me see the creature who was once so fair of face,

he took a step aside, then brought me to a halt: ‘Look there at Dis! And see the place   → where you must arm yourself with fortitude.

Then how faint and frozen I became,’   → reader, do not ask, for I do not write it, since any words would fail to be enough.

I did not die, nor did I stay alive.

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Imagine, if you have the wit, what I became, deprived of either state.

The emperor of the woeful kingdom rose from the ice below his breast, and I in size am closer to a giant   →

than giants are when measured to his arms. Judge, then, what the whole must be that is proportional to such a part.

If he was fair as he is hideous now, and raised his brow in scorn of his creator,   → he is �t to be the source of every sorrow.

Oh, what a wonder it appeared to me   → when I perceived three faces on his head. The �rst, in front, was red in color.   →

Another two he had, each joined with this, above the midpoint of each shoulder, and all the three united at the crest.

The one on the right was a whitish yellow, while the left-hand one was tinted like the people living at the sources of the Nile.

Beneath each face two mighty wings emerged,   → such as be�t so vast a bird: I never saw such massive sails at sea.

They were featherless and fashioned like a bat’s wings. When he �apped them, he sent forth three separate winds,

the sources of the ice upon Cocytus. Out of six eyes he wept and his three chins   →

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dripped tears and drooled blood-red saliva.

With his teeth, just like a hackle pounding �ax, he champed a sinner in each mouth, tormenting three at once.

For the one in front the gnawing was a tri�e to the clawing, for from time to time his back was left with not a shred of skin.

‘That soul up there who bears the greatest pain,’   → said the master, ‘is Judas Iscariot, who has his head within and outside �ails his legs.

‘As for the other two, whose heads are dangling down, Brutus is hanging from the swarthy snout— see how he writhes and utters not a word!—

‘and from the other, Cassius, so large of limb. But night is rising in the sky. It is time   → for us to leave, for we have seen it all.’

At his request I clasped him round the neck. When the wings had opened wide enough   → he chose the proper time and place

and took a handhold on those hairy �anks. Then from hank to hank he clambered down between the thick pelt and the crusted ice.

When we had come to where the thighbone   → swivels, at the broad part of the hips, my leader, with much strain of limb and breath,

turned his head where Satan had his shanks and clung to the hair like a man climbing upward, so that I thought we were heading back to Hell.

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‘Hold on tight, for by such rungs as these,’ said my master, panting like a man exhausted, ‘must we depart from so much evil.’

Then out through an opening in the rock he went, setting me down upon its edge to rest. And then, with quick and cautious steps, he joined me.

I raised my eyes, thinking I would see Lucifer still the same as I had left him, but saw him with his legs held upward.

And if I became confused, let those dull minds who fail to see what point I’d passed comprehend what I felt then.

The master said to me: ‘Get to your feet,   → for the way is long and the road not easy, and the sun returns to middle tierce.’

It was not the great hall of a palace,   → where we were, but a natural dungeon, rough underfoot and wanting light.

‘Master, before I tear myself from this abyss,’ I said once I had risen, ‘say a few words to rid me of my doubt.

‘Where is the ice? Why is this one �xed now upside down? And how in so few hours has the sun moved from evening into morning?’

And he to me: ‘You imagine you are still beyond the center, where I grasped the hair of the guilty worm by whom the world is pierced.

‘So you were, as long as I descended,

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but, when I turned around, you passed the point to which all weights are drawn from every side.

‘You are now beneath the hemisphere opposite the one that canopies the landmass— and underneath its zenith that Man was slain

‘who without sin was born and sinless lived. You have your feet upon a little sphere that forms Judecca’s other face.

‘Here it is morning when it is evening there, and the one whose hair provided us a ladder is �xed exactly as he was before.

‘It was on this side that he fell from Heaven.   → And the dry land that used to stand, above, in fear of him immersed itself in water

‘and �ed into our hemisphere. And perhaps to escape from him the land we’ll �nd above created this lacuna when it rushed back up.’

As far as one can get from Beelzebub,   → in the remotest corner of this cavern, there is a place one cannot �nd by sight,

but by the sound of a narrow stream that trickles through a channel it has cut into the rock in its meanderings, making a gentle slope.

Into that hidden passage my guide and I   → entered, to �nd again the world of light, and, without thinking of a moment’s rest,

we climbed up, he �rst and I behind him, far enough to see, through a round opening,

139 a few of those fair things the heavens bear. Then we came forth, to see again the stars.   →

The Inferno: Italian

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INFERNO I

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita   → mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,   → ché la diritta via era smarrita.   →

Ahi quanto a dir qual era è cosa dura esta selva selvaggia e aspra e forte che nel pensier rinova la paura!

Tant’ è amara che poco è più morte;   → ma per trattar del ben ch’i’ vi trovai,   → dirò de l’altre cose ch’i’ v’ho scorte.

Io non so ben ridir com’ i’ v’intrai, tant’ era pien di sonno a quel punto   → che la verace via abbandonai.

Ma poi ch’i’ fui al piè d’un colle giunto,   → là dove terminava quella valle   → che m’avea di paura il cor compunto,   →

guardai in alto e vidi le sue spalle vestite già de’ raggi del pianeta   → che mena dritto altrui per ogne calle.   →

Allor fu la paura un poco queta, che nel lago del cor m’era durata   → la notte ch’i’ passai con tanta pieta.

E come quei che con lena a�annata,   → uscito fuor del pelago a la riva, si volge a l’acqua perigliosa e guata,

così l’animo mio, ch’ancor fuggiva,

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si volse a retro a rimirar lo passo   → che non lasciò già mai persona viva.

Poi ch’èi posato un poco il corpo lasso, ripresi via per la piaggia diserta, sì che ’l piè fermo sempre era ’l più basso.   →

Ed ecco, quasi al cominciar de l’erta, una lonza leggiera e presta molto,   → che di pel macolato era coverta;   →

e non mi si partia dinanzi al volto, anzi ’mpediva tanto il mio cammino, ch’i’ fui per ritornar più volte vòlto.

Temp’ era dal principio del mattino, e ’l sol montava ’n sù con quelle stelle   → ch’eran con lui quando l’amor divino

mosse di prima quelle cose belle; sì ch’a bene sperar m’era cagione di quella �era a la gaetta pelle

l’ora del tempo e la dolce stagione; ma non sì che paura non mi desse la vista che m’apparve d’un leone.

Questi parea che contra me venisse con la test’ alta e con rabbiosa fame, sì che parea che l’aere ne tremesse.

Ed una lupa, che di tutte brame sembiava carca ne la sua magrezza, e molte genti fé già viver grame,

questa mi porse tanto di gravezza con la paura ch’uscia di sua vista,

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ch’io perdei la speranza de l’altezza.

E qual è quei che volontieri acquista,   → e giugne ’l tempo che perder lo face, che ’n tutti suoi pensier piange e s’attrista;

tal mi fece la bestia sanza pace, che, venendomi ’ncontro, a poco a poco mi ripigneva là dove ’l sol tace.

Mentre ch’i’ rovinava in basso loco,   → dinanzi a li occhi mi si fu o�erto   → chi per lungo silenzio parea �oco.   →

Quando vidi costui nel gran diserto,   → “Miserere di me,” gridai a lui,   → “qual che tu sii, od ombra od omo certo!”

Rispuosemi: “Non omo, omo già fui,   → e li parenti miei furon lombardi, mantoani per patrïa ambedui.

Nacqui sub Iulio, ancor che fosse tardi,   → e vissi a Roma sotto ’l buono Augusto nel tempo de li dèi falsi e bugiardi.

Poeta fui, e cantai di quel giusto   → �gliuol d’Anchise che venne di Troia,   → poi che ’l superbo Ilïón fu combusto.   →

Ma tu perché ritorni a tanta noia? perché non sali il dilettoso monte   → ch’è principio e cagion di tutta goia?”

“Or se’ tu quel Virgilio e quella fonte   → che spandi di parlar sì largo �ume?” rispuos’ io lui con vergognosa fronte.   →

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“O de li altri poeti onore e lume, vagliami ’l lungo studio e ’l grande amore che m’ha fatto cercar lo tuo volume.   →

Tu se’ lo mio maestro e ’l mio autore, tu se’ solo colui da cu’ io tolsi   → lo bello stilo che m’ha fatto onore.

Vedi la bestia per cu’ io mi volsi; aiutami da lei, famoso saggio, ch’ella mi fa tremar le vene e i polsi.”

“A te convien tenere altro vïaggio,” rispuose, poi che lagrimar mi vide, “se vuo’ campar d’esto loco selvaggio;

ché questa bestia, per la qual tu gride, non lascia altrui passar per la sua via, ma tanto lo ’mpedisce che l’uccide;

e ha natura sì malvagia e ria, che mai non empie la bramosa voglia, e dopo ’l pasto ha più fame che pria.

Molti son li animali a cui s’ammoglia,   → e più saranno ancora, in�n che ’l veltro verrà, che la farà morir con doglia.

Questi non ciberà terra né peltro, ma sapïenza, amore e virtute, e sua nazion sarà tra feltro e feltro.

Di quella umile Italia �a salute   → per cui morì la vergine Cammilla,   → Eurialo e Turno e Niso di ferute.

Questi la caccerà per ogne villa,   →

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�n che l’avrà rimessa ne lo ’nferno, là onde ’nvidia prima dipartilla.

Ond’ io per lo tuo me’ penso e discerno che tu mi segui, e io sarò tua guida, e trarrotti di qui per loco etterno;

ove udirai le disperate strida, vedrai li antichi spiriti dolenti, ch’a la seconda morte ciascun grida;   →

e vederai color che son contenti nel foco, perché speran di venire quando che sia a le beate genti.

A le quai poi se tu vorrai salire, anima �a a ciò più di me degna:   → con lei ti lascerò nel mio partire;

ché quello imperador che là sù regna, perch’ i’ fu’ ribellante a la sua legge,   → non vuol che ’n sua città per me si vegna.

In tutte parti impera e quivi regge; quivi è la sua città e l’alto seggio: oh felice colui cu’ ivi elegge!”

E io a lui: “Poeta, io ti richeggio per quello Dio che tu non conoscesti, a ciò ch’io fugga questo male e peggio,   →

che tu mi meni là dov’ or dicesti, sì ch’io veggia la porta di san Pietro   → e color cui tu fai cotanto mesti.” Allor si mosse, e io li tenni dietro.

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INFERNO II

Lo giorno se n’andava, e l’aere bruno;   → toglieva li animai che sono in terra da le fatiche loro; e io sol uno;   →

m’apparecchiava a sostener la guerra;   → sì del cammino e sì de la pietate, che ritrarrà la mente che non erra.   →

O Muse, o alto ingegno, or m’aiutate;;   → o mente che scrivesti ciò ch’io vidi, qui si parrà la tua nobilitate.

Io cominciai: “Poeta che mi guidi,   → guarda la mia virtù s’ell’ è possente, prima ch’a l’alto passo tu mi �di.   →

Tu dici che di Silvïo il parente,   → corruttibile ancora, ad immortale secolo andò, e fu sensibilmente.   →

Però, se l’avversario d’ogne male;   → cortese i fu, pensando l’alto e�etto ch’uscir dovea di lui, e ’l chi e ’l quale

non pare indegno ad omo d’intelletto; ch’e’ fu de l’alma Roma e di suo impero;   → ne l’empireo ciel per padre eletto:

la quale e ’l quale, a voler dir lo vero,   → fu stabilita per lo loco santo u’ siede il successor del maggior Piero.

Per quest’ andata onde li dai tu vanto,

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intese cose che furon cagione;   → di sua vittoria e del papale ammanto.   →

Andovvi poi lo Vas d’elezïone,   → per recarne conforto a quella fede ch’è principio a la via di salvazione.

Ma io, perché venirvi? o chi ’l concede? Io non Enëa, io non Paulo sono;;   → me degno a ciò né io né altri ’l crede.   →

Per che, se del venire io m’abbandono, temo che la venuta non sia folle. Se’ savio; intendi me’ ch’i’ non ragiono.”

E qual è quei che disvuol ciò che volle;   → e per novi pensier cangia proposta, sì che dal cominciar tutto si tolle,

tal mi fec’ ïo ’n quella oscura costa, perché, pensando, consumai la ’mpresa;   → che fu nel cominciar cotanto tosta.

“S’i’ ho ben la parola tua intesa,”   → rispuose del magnanimo quell’ ombra, “l’anima tua è da viltade o�esa;

la qual molte fïate l’omo ingombra sì che d’onrata impresa lo rivolve, come falso veder bestia quand’ ombra.   →

Da questa tema a ciò che tu ti solve, dirotti perch’ io venni e quel ch’io ’ntesi nel primo punto che di te mi dolve.

Io era tra color che son sospesi,   → e donna mi chiamò beata e bella,   →

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tal che di comandare io la richiesi.

Lucevan li occhi suoi più che la stella; e cominciommi a dir soave e piana,   → con angelica voce, in sua favella:

‘O anima cortese mantoana,   → di cui la fama ancor nel mondo dura, e durerà quanto ’l mondo lontana,

l’amico mio, e non de la ventura,   → ne la diserta piaggia è impedito;   → sì nel cammin, che vòlt’ è per paura;

e temo che non sia già sì smarrito, ch’io mi sia tardi al soccorso levata, per quel ch’i’ ho di lui nel cielo udito.

Or movi, e con la tua parola ornata;   → e con ciò c’ha mestieri al suo campare, l’aiuta sì ch’i’ ne sia consolata.

I’ son Beatrice che ti faccio andare; vegno del loco ove tornar disio; amor mi mosse, che mi fa parlare.

Quando sarò dinanzi al segnor mio, di te mi loderò sovente a lui.’   → Tacette allora, e poi comincia’ io:

‘O donna di virtù sola per cui;   → l’umana spezie eccede ogne contento di quel ciel c’ha minor li cerchi sui,

tanto m’aggrada il tuo comandamento, che l’ubidir, se già fosse, m’è tardi; più non t’è uo’ ch’aprirmi il tuo talento.

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Ma dimmi la cagion che non ti guardi de lo scender qua giuso in questo centro;   → de l’ampio loco ove tornar tu ardi.’

‘Da che tu vuo’ saver cotanto a dentro,   → dirotti brievemente,’ mi rispuose, ‘perch’ i’ non temo di venir qua entro.

Temer si dee di sole quelle cose c’hanno potenza di fare altrui male; de l’altre no, ché non son paurose.

I’ son fatta da Dio, sua mercé, tale, che la vostra miseria non mi tange, né �amma d’esto ’ncendio non m’assale.

Donna è gentil nel ciel che si compiange;   → di questo ’mpedimento ov’ io ti mando, sì che duro giudicio là sù frange.

Questa chiese Lucia in suo dimando;   → e disse: “Or ha bisogno il tuo fedele di te, e io a te lo raccomando.”

Lucia, nimica di ciascun crudele, si mosse, e venne al loco dov’ i’ era, che mi sedea con l’antica Rachele.   →

Disse: “Beatrice, loda di Dio vera, ché non soccorri quei che t’amò tanto, ch’uscì per te de la volgare schiera?;   →

Non odi tu la pieta del suo pianto, non vedi tu la morte che ’l combatte;   → su la �umana ove ’l mar non ha vanto?”

Al mondo non fur mai persone ratte;   →

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a far lor pro o a fuggir lor danno, com’ io, dopo cotai parole fatte,

venni qua giù del mio beato scanno, �dandomi del tuo parlare onesto, ch’onora te e quei ch’udito l’hanno.’

Poscia che m’ebbe ragionato questo, li occhi lucenti lagrimando volse,   → per che mi fece del venir più presto.

E venni a te così com’ ella volse:   → d’inanzi a quella �era ti levai che del bel monte il corto andar ti tolse.

Dunque: che è? perché, perché restai, perché tanta viltà nel core allette, perché ardire e franchezza non hai,

poscia che tai tre donne benedette curan di te ne la corte del cielo, e ’l mio parlar tanto ben ti promette?”

Quali �oretti dal notturno gelo chinati e chiusi, poi che ’l sol li ’mbianca, si drizzan tutti aperti in loro stelo,

tal mi fec’ io di mia virtude stanca, e tanto buono ardire al cor mi corse, ch’i’ cominciai come persona franca:

“Oh pietosa colei che mi soccorse!;   → e te cortese ch’ubidisti tosto a le vere parole che ti porse!

Tu m’hai con disiderio il cor disposto sì al venir con le parole tue,

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ch’i’ son tornato nel primo proposto.

Or va, ch’un sol volere è d’ambedue: tu duca, tu segnore e tu maestro.”   → Così li dissi; e poi che mosso fue, intrai per lo cammino alto e silvestro.   →

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INFERNO III

“Per me si va ne la città dolente,   → per me si va ne l’etterno dolore, per me si va tra la perduta gente.   →

Giustizia mosse il mio alto fattore;   → fecemi la divina podestate,   → la somma sapïenza e ’l primo amore.

Dinanzi a me non fuor cose create   → se non etterne, e io etterno duro. Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate.”

Queste parole di colore oscuro   → vid’ ïo scritte al sommo d’una porta; per ch’io: “Maestro, il senso lor m’è duro.”   →

Ed elli a me, come persona accorta:   → “Qui si convien lasciare ogne sospetto; ogne viltà convien che qui sia morta.

Noi siam venuti al loco ov’ i’ t’ho detto che tu vedrai le genti dolorose c’hanno perduto il ben de l’intelletto.”   →

E poi che la sua mano a la mia puose con lieto volto, ond’ io mi confortai, mi mise dentro a le segrete cose.   →

Quivi sospiri, pianti e alti guai   → risonavan per l’aere sanza stelle, per ch’io al cominciar ne lagrimai.   →

Diverse lingue, orribili favelle,   →

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parole di dolore, accenti d’ira, voci alte e �oche, e suon di man con elle   →

facevano un tumulto, il qual s’aggira sempre in quell’ aura sanza tempo tinta, come la rena quando turbo spira.

E io ch’avea d’error la testa cinta, dissi: “Maestro, che è quel ch’i’ odo? e che gent’ è che par nel duol sì vinta?”

Ed elli a me: “Questo misero modo   → tegnon l’anime triste di coloro che visser sanza ’nfamia e sanza lodo.

Mischiate sono a quel cattivo coro   → de li angeli che non furon ribelli né fur fedeli a Dio, ma per sé fuoro.

Caccianli i ciel per non esser men belli,   → né lo profondo inferno li riceve, ch’alcuna gloria i rei avrebber d’elli.”

E io: “Maestro, che è tanto greve a lor che lamentar li fa sì forte?” Rispuose: “Dicerolti molto breve.

Questi non hanno speranza di morte,   → e la lor cieca vita è tanto bassa, che ’nvidïosi son d’ogne altra sorte.

Fama di loro il mondo esser non lassa; misericordia e giustizia li sdegna:   → non ragioniam di lor, ma guarda e passa.”

E io, che riguardai, vidi una ’nsegna   → che girando correva tanto ratta,

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che d’ogne posa mi parea indegna;

e dietro le venìa sì lunga tratta di gente, ch’i’ non averei creduto che morte tanta n’avesse disfatta.

Poscia ch’io v’ebbi alcun riconosciuto,   → vidi e conobbi l’ombra di colui che fece per viltade il gran ri�uto.

Incontanente intesi e certo fui che questa era la setta d’i cattivi, a Dio spiacenti e a’ nemici sui.

Questi sciaurati, che mai non fur vivi,   → erano ignudi e stimolati molto da mosconi e da vespe ch’eran ivi.

Elle rigavan lor di sangue il volto, che, mischiato di lagrime, a’ lor piedi da fastidiosi vermi era ricolto.

E poi ch’a riguardar oltre mi diedi,   → vidi genti a la riva d’un gran �ume; per ch’io dissi: “Maestro, or mi concedi

ch’i’ sappia quali sono, e qual costume le fa di trapassar parer sì pronte, com’ i’ discerno per lo �oco lume.”   →

Ed elli a me: “Le cose ti �er conte   → quando noi fermerem li nostri passi su la trista riviera d’Acheronte.”

Allor con li occhi vergognosi e bassi, temendo no ’l mio dir li fosse grave, in�no al �ume del parlar mi trassi.

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Ed ecco verso noi venir per nave un vecchio, bianco per antico pelo, gridando: “Guai a voi, anime prave!

Non isperate mai veder lo cielo: i’ vegno per menarvi a l’altra riva ne le tenebre etterne, in caldo e ’n gelo.

E tu che se’ costì, anima viva,   → pàrtiti da cotesti che son morti.” Ma poi che vide ch’io non mi partiva,

disse: “Per altra via, per altri porti   → verrai a piaggia, non qui, per passare: più lieve legno convien che ti porti.”

E ’l duca lui: “Caron, non ti crucciare:   → vuolsi così colà dove si puote   → ciò che si vuole, e più non dimandare.”

Quinci fuor quete le lanose gote al nocchier de la livida palude, che ’ntorno a li occhi avea di �amme rote.

Ma quell’ anime, ch’eran lasse e nude, cangiar colore e dibattero i denti, ratto che ’nteser le parole crude.

Bestemmiavano Dio e lor parenti, l’umana spezie e ’l loco e ’l tempo e ’l seme   → di lor semenza e di lor nascimenti.

Poi si ritrasser tutte quante insieme, forte piangendo, a la riva malvagia ch’attende ciascun uom che Dio non teme.

Caron dimonio, con occhi di bragia   →

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loro accennando, tutte le raccoglie; batte col remo qualunque s’adagia.   →

Come d’autunno si levan le foglie   → l’una appresso de l’altra, �n che ’l ramo vede a la terra tutte le sue spoglie,

similemente il mal seme d’Adamo gittansi di quel lito ad una ad una, per cenni come augel per suo richiamo.

Così sen vanno su per l’onda bruna, e avanti che sien di là discese, anche di qua nuova schiera s’auna.

“Figliuol mio,” disse ’l maestro cortese, “quelli che muoion ne l’ira di Dio tutti convegnon qui d’ogne paese;

e pronti sono a trapassar lo rio, ché la divina giustizia li sprona,   → sì che la tema si volve in disio.

Quinci non passa mai anima buona; e però, se Caron di te si lagna, ben puoi sapere omai che ’l suo dir suona.”

Finito questo, la buia campagna   → tremò sì forte, che de lo spavento la mente di sudore ancor mi bagna.

La terra lagrimosa diede vento, che balenò una luce vermiglia la qual mi vinse ciascun sentimento; e caddi come l’uom cui sonno piglia.   →

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INFERNO IV

Ruppemi l’alto sonno ne la testa   → un greve truono, sì ch’io mi riscossi come persona ch’è per forza desta;

e l’occhio riposato intorno mossi, dritto levato, e �so riguardai per conoscer lo loco dov’ io fossi.

Vero è che ’n su la proda mi trovai de la valle d’abisso dolorosa che ’ntrono accoglie d’in�niti guai.

Oscura e profonda era e nebulosa tanto che, per �ccar lo viso a fondo, io non vi discernea alcuna cosa.

“Or discendiam qua giù nel cieco mondo,”   → cominciò il poeta tutto smorto. “Io sarò primo, e tu sarai secondo.”

E io, che del color mi fui accorto,   → dissi: “Come verrò, se tu paventi che suoli al mio dubbiare esser conforto?”   →

Ed elli a me: “L’angoscia de le genti   → che son qua giù, nel viso mi dipigne quella pietà che tu per tema senti.

Andiam, ché la via lunga ne sospigne.” Così si mise e così mi fé intrare nel primo cerchio che l’abisso cigne.

Quivi, secondo che per ascoltare,   →

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non avea pianto mai che di sospiri che l’aura etterna facevan tremare;

ciò avvenia di duol sanza martìri, ch’avean le turbe, ch’eran molte e grandi, d’infanti e di femmine e di viri.   →

Lo buon maestro a me: “Tu non dimandi che spiriti son questi che tu vedi? Or vo’ che sappi, innanzi che più andi,

ch’ei non peccaro; e s’elli hanno mercedi, non basta, perché non ebber battesmo, ch’è porta de la fede che tu credi;

e s’ e’ furon dinanzi al cristianesmo, non adorar debitamente a Dio: e di questi cotai son io medesmo.

Per tai difetti, non per altro rio, semo perduti, e sol di tanto o�esi che sanza speme vivemo in disio.”   →

Gran duol mi prese al cor quando lo ’ntesi, però che gente di molto valore   → conobbi che ’n quel limbo eran sospesi.   →

“Dimmi, maestro mio, dimmi, segnore,”   → comincia’ io per volere esser certo di quella fede che vince ogne errore:

“uscicci mai alcuno, o per suo merto o per altrui, che poi fosse beato?” E quei che ’ntese il mio parlar coverto,

rispuose: “Io era nuovo in questo stato,   → quando ci vidi venire un possente,

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con segno di vittoria coronato.

Trasseci l’ombra del primo parente,   → d’Abèl suo �glio e quella di Noè, di Moïsè legista e ubidente;

Abraàm patrïarca e Davìd re, Israèl con lo padre e co’ suoi nati e con Rachele, per cui tanto fé,

e altri molti, e feceli beati. E vo’ che sappi che, dinanzi ad essi,   → spiriti umani non eran salvati.”

Non lasciavam l’andar perch’ ei dicessi, ma passavam la selva tuttavia, la selva, dico, di spiriti spessi.

Non era lunga ancor la nostra via di qua dal sonno, quand’ io vidi un foco ch’emisperio di tenebre vincia.

Di lungi n’eravamo ancora un poco, ma non sì ch’io non discernessi in parte ch’orrevol gente possedea quel loco.   →

“O tu ch’onori scïenzïa e arte,   → questi chi son c’hanno cotanta onranza, che dal modo de li altri li diparte?”

E quelli a me: “L’onrata nominanza che di lor suona sù ne la tua vita, grazïa acquista in ciel che sì li avanza.”   →

Intanto voce fu per me udita:   → “Onorate l’altissimo poeta;   → l’ombra sua torna, ch’era dipartita.”

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Poi che la voce fu restata e queta, vidi quattro grand’ ombre a noi venire: sembianz’ avevan né trista né lieta.

Lo buon maestro cominciò a dire: “Mira colui con quella spada in mano,   → che vien dinanzi ai tre sì come sire:

quelli è Omero poeta sovrano;   →   → l’altro è Orazio satiro che vene;   → Ovidio è ’l terzo, e l’ultimo Lucano.   →

Però che ciascun meco si convene nel nome che sonò la voce sola, fannomi onore, e di ciò fanno bene.”   →

Così vid’ i’ adunar la bella scola di quel segnor de l’altissimo canto   → che sovra li altri com’ aquila vola.

Da ch’ebber ragionato insieme alquanto, volsersi a me con salutevol cenno, e ’l mio maestro sorrise di tanto;   →

e più d’onore ancora assai mi fenno, ch’e’ sì mi fecer de la loro schiera,   → sì ch’io fui sesto tra cotanto senno.   →

Così andammo in�no a la lumera, parlando cose che ’l tacere è bello,   → sì com’ era ’l parlar colà dov’ era.

Venimmo al piè d’un nobile castello,   → sette volte cerchiato d’alte mura, difeso intorno d’un bel �umicello.

Questo passammo come terra dura;

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per sette porte intrai con questi savi: giugnemmo in prato di fresca verdura.

Genti v’eran con occhi tardi e gravi, di grande autorità ne’ lor sembianti: parlavan rado, con voci soavi.

Traemmoci così da l’un de’ canti,   → in loco aperto, luminoso e alto, sì che veder si potien tutti quanti.

Colà diritto, sovra ’l verde smalto, mi fuor mostrati li spiriti magni, che del vedere in me stesso m’essalto.

I’ vidi Eletra con molti compagni,   → tra ’ quai conobbi Ettòr ed Enea, Cesare armato con li occhi grifagni.   →

Vidi Cammilla e la Pantasilea;   → da l’altra parte vidi ’l re Latino che con Lavina sua �glia sedea.

Vidi quel Bruto che cacciò Tarquino,   → Lucrezia, Iulia, Marzïa e Corniglia; e solo, in parte, vidi ’l Saladino.   →

Poi ch’innalzai un poco più le ciglia, vidi ’l maestro di color che sanno   → seder tra �loso�ca famiglia.

Tutti lo miran, tutti onor li fanno: quivi vid’ ïo Socrate e Platone,   → che ’nnanzi a li altri più presso li stanno;

Democrito che ’l mondo a caso pone, Dïogenès, Anassagora e Tale,

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Empedoclès, Eraclito e Zenone;

e vidi il buono accoglitor del quale, Dïascoride dico; e vidi Orfeo,   → Tulïo e Lino e Seneca morale;

Euclide geomètra e Tolomeo,   → Ipocràte, Avicenna e Galïeno, Averoìs che ’l gran comento feo.

Io non posso ritrar di tutti a pieno,   → però che sì mi caccia il lungo tema, che molte volte al fatto il dir vien meno.

La sesta compagnia in due si scema: per altra via mi mena il savio duca, fuor de la queta, ne l’aura che trema. E vegno in parte ove non è che luca.

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INFERNO V

Così discesi del cerchio primaio   → giù nel secondo, che men loco cinghia e tanto più dolor, che punge a guaio.

Stavvi Minòs orribilmente, e ringhia:   → essamina le colpe ne l’intrata; giudica e manda secondo ch’avvinghia.   →

Dico che quando l’anima mal nata   → li vien dinanzi, tutta si confessa;   → e quel conoscitor de le peccata   →

vede qual loco d’inferno è da essa; cignesi con la coda tante volte quantunque gradi vuol che giù sia messa.

Sempre dinanzi a lui ne stanno molte: vanno a vicenda ciascuna al giudizio, dicono e odono e poi son giù volte.

“O tu che vieni al doloroso ospizio,” disse Minòs a me quando mi vide,   → lasciando l’atto di cotanto o�zio,   →

“guarda com’ entri e di cui tu ti �de; non t’inganni l’ampiezza de l’intrare!”   → E ’l duca mio a lui: “Perché pur gride?

Non impedir lo suo fatale andare:   → vuolsi così colà dove si puote ciò che si vuole, e più non dimandare.”

Or incomincian le dolenti note   → a farmisi sentire; or son venuto   →

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là dove molto pianto mi percuote.

Io venni in loco d’ogne luce muto, che mugghia come fa mar per tempesta, se da contrari venti è combattuto.

La bufera infernal, che mai non resta, mena li spirti con la sua rapina; voltando e percotendo li molesta.

Quando giungon davanti a la ruina,   → quivi le strida, il compianto, il lamento; bestemmian quivi la virtù divina.

Intesi ch’a così fatto tormento enno dannati i peccator carnali, che la ragion sommettono al talento.

E come li stornei ne portan l’ali   →   → nel freddo tempo, a schiera larga e piena, così quel �ato li spiriti mali

di qua, di là, di giù, di sù li mena; nulla speranza li conforta mai, non che di posa, ma di minor pena.

E come i gru van cantando lor lai,   → faccendo in aere di sé lunga riga, così vid’ io venir, traendo guai,

ombre portate da la detta briga; per ch’i’ dissi: “Maestro, chi son quelle genti che l’aura nera sì gastiga?”

“La prima di color di cui novelle tu vuo’ saper,” mi disse quelli allotta, “fu imperadrice di molte favelle.

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A vizio di lussuria fu sì rotta, che libito fé licito in sua legge, per tòrre il biasmo in che era condotta.

Ell’ è Semiramìs, di cui si legge   →   → che succedette a Nino e fu sua sposa: tenne la terra che ’l Soldan corregge.

L’altra è colei che s’ancise amorosa,   →   → e ruppe fede al cener di Sicheo;   → poi è Cleopatràs lussurïosa.   →

Elena vedi, per cui tanto reo tempo si volse, e vedi ’l grande Achille,   → che con amore al �ne combatteo.

Vedi Parìs, Tristano”; e più di mille ombre mostrommi e nominommi a dito, ch’amor di nostra vita dipartille.   →

Poscia ch’io ebbi ’l mio dottore udito nomar le donne antiche e ’ cavalieri,   → pietà mi giunse, e fui quasi smarrito.

I’ cominciai: “Poeta, volontieri parlerei a que’ due che ’nsieme vanno,   → e paion sì al vento esser leggieri.”

Ed elli a me: “Vedrai quando saranno   → più presso a noi; e tu allor li priega per quello amor che i mena, ed ei verranno.”

Sì tosto come il vento a noi li piega, mossi la voce: “O anime a�annate,   → venite a noi parlar, s’altri nol niega!”

Quali colombe dal disio chiamate   →

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con l’ali alzate e ferme al dolce nido vegnon per l’aere, dal voler portate;

cotali uscir de la schiera ov’ è Dido, a noi venendo per l’aere maligno, sì forte fu l’a�ettüoso grido.

“O animal grazïoso e benigno   → che visitando vai per l’aere perso noi che tignemmo il mondo di sanguigno,

se fosse amico il re de l’universo,   →   → noi pregheremmo lui de la tua pace, poi c’hai pietà del nostro mal perverso.

Di quel che udire e che parlar vi piace, noi udiremo e parleremo a voi, mentre che ’l vento, come fa, ci tace.

Siede la terra dove nata fui su la marina dove ’l Po discende per aver pace co’ seguaci sui.

Amor, ch’al cor gentil ratto s’apprende,   → prese costui de la bella persona che mi fu tolta; e ’l modo ancor m’o�ende.   →

Amor, ch’a nullo amato amar perdona,   → mi prese del costui piacer sì forte, che, come vedi, ancor non m’abbandona.

Amor condusse noi ad una morte. Caina attende chi a vita ci spense.”   → Queste parole da lor ci fuor porte.

Quand’ io intesi quell’ anime o�ense,   → china’ il viso, e tanto il tenni basso,

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�n che ’l poeta mi disse: “Che pense?”

Quando rispuosi, cominciai: “Oh lasso, quanti dolci pensier, quanto disio menò costoro al doloroso passo!”

Poi mi rivolsi a loro e parla’ io, e cominciai: “Francesca, i tuoi martìri a lagrimar mi fanno tristo e pio.

Ma dimmi: al tempo d’i dolci sospiri,   → a che e come concedette amore che conosceste i dubbiosi disiri?”

E quella a me: “Nessun maggior dolore   → che ricordarsi del tempo felice ne la miseria; e ciò sa ’l tuo dottore.   →

Ma s’a conoscer la prima radice del nostro amor tu hai cotanto a�etto, dirò come colui che piange e dice.

Noi leggiavamo un giorno per diletto   → di Lancialotto come amor lo strinse; soli eravamo e sanza alcun sospetto.

Per più fïate li occhi ci sospinse quella lettura, e scolorocci il viso; ma solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse.   →

Quando leggemmo il disïato riso esser basciato da cotanto amante, questi, che mai da me non �a diviso,

la bocca mi basciò tutto tremante. Galeotto fu ’l libro e chi lo scrisse:   → quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante.”   →

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Mentre che l’uno spirto questo disse, l’altro piangëa; sì che di pietade   → io venni men così com’ io morisse.   → E caddi come corpo morto cade.   →

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INFERNO VI

Al tornar de la mente, che si chiuse   → dinanzi a la pietà d’i due cognati,   → che di trestizia tutto mi confuse,

novi tormenti e novi tormentati mi veggio intorno, come ch’io mi mova e ch’io mi volga, e come che io guati.

Io sono al terzo cerchio, de la piova   → etterna, maladetta, fredda e greve; regola e qualità mai non l’ è nova.

Grandine grossa, acqua tinta e neve per l’aere tenebroso si riversa; pute la terra che questo riceve.

Cerbero, �era crudele e diversa,   → con tre gole caninamente latra sovra la gente che quivi è sommersa.

Li occhi ha vermigli, la barba unta e atra, e ’l ventre largo, e unghiate le mani; gra�a li spirti ed iscoia ed isquatra.

Urlar li fa la pioggia come cani; de l’un de’ lati fanno a l’altro schermo; volgonsi spesso i miseri profani.

Quando ci scorse Cerbero, il gran vermo, le bocche aperse e mostrocci le sanne; non avea membro che tenesse fermo.

E ’l duca mio distese le sue spanne,   →

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prese la terra, e con piene le pugna la gittò dentro a le bramose canne.

Qual è quel cane ch’abbaiando agogna,   → e si racqueta poi che ’l pasto morde, ché solo a divorarlo intende e pugna,

cotai si fecer quelle facce lorde de lo demonio Cerbero, che ’ntrona l’anime sì, ch’esser vorrebber sorde.

Noi passavam su per l’ombre che adona   → la greve pioggia, e ponavam le piante sovra lor vanità che par persona.

Elle giacean per terra tutte quante,   → fuor d’una ch’a seder si levò, ratto ch’ella ci vide passarsi davante.

“O tu che se’ per questo ’nferno tratto,” mi disse, “riconoscimi, se sai: tu fosti, prima ch’io disfatto, fatto.”

E io a lui: “L’angoscia che tu hai   → forse ti tira fuor de la mia mente, sì che non par ch’i’ ti vedessi mai.

Ma dimmi chi tu se’ che ’n sì dolente loco se’ messo, e hai sì fatta pena, che, s’altra è maggio, nulla è sì spiacente.”

Ed elli a me: “La tua città, ch’è piena   → d’invidia sì che già trabocca il sacco, seco mi tenne in la vita serena.

Voi cittadini mi chiamaste Ciacco:   → per la dannosa colpa de la gola,

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come tu vedi, a la pioggia mi �acco.

E io anima trista non son sola, ché tutte queste a simil pena stanno per simil colpa.” E più non fé parola.

Io li rispuosi: “Ciacco, il tuo a�anno mi pesa sì, ch’a lagrimar mi ’nvita; ma dimmi, se tu sai, a che verranno

li cittadin de la città partita; s’alcun v’è giusto; e dimmi la cagione per che l’ha tanta discordia assalita.”

E quelli a me: “Dopo lunga tencione   → verranno al sangue, e la parte selvaggia caccerà l’altra con molta o�ensione.

Poi appresso convien che questa caggia   → infra tre soli, e che l’altra sormonti con la forza di tal che testé piaggia.

Alte terrà lungo tempo le fronti, tenendo l’altra sotto gravi pesi, come che di ciò pianga o che n’aonti.

Giusti son due, e non vi sono intesi;   → superbia, invidia e avarizia sono   → le tre faville c’hanno i cuori accesi.”

Qui puose �ne al lagrimabil suono. E io a lui: “Ancor vo’ che mi ’nsegni e che di più parlar mi facci dono.

Farinata e ’l Tegghiaio, che fuor sì degni,   → Iacopo Rusticucci, Arrigo e ’l Mosca e li altri ch’a ben far puoser li ’ngegni,

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dimmi ove sono e fa ch’io li conosca; ché gran disio mi stringe di savere se ’l ciel li addolcia o lo ’nferno li attosca.”

E quelli: “Ei son tra l’anime più nere; diverse colpe giù li grava al fondo: se tanto scendi, là i potrai vedere.

Ma quando tu sarai nel dolce mondo,   → priegoti ch’a la mente altrui mi rechi: più non ti dico e più non ti rispondo.”   →

Li diritti occhi torse allora in biechi;   → guardommi un poco e poi chinò la testa: cadde con essa a par de li altri ciechi.

E ’l duca disse a me: “Più non si desta di qua dal suon de l’angelica tromba, quando verrà la nimica podesta:

ciascun rivederà la trista tomba, ripiglierà sua carne e sua �gura, udirà quel ch’in etterno rimbomba.”   →

Sì trapassammo per sozza mistura de l’ombre e de la pioggia, a passi lenti, toccando un poco la vita futura;   →

per ch’io dissi: “Maestro, esti tormenti crescerann’ ei dopo la gran sentenza, o �er minori, o saran sì cocenti?”

Ed elli a me: “Ritorna a tua scïenza,   → che vuol, quanto la cosa è più perfetta, più senta il bene, e così la doglienza.

Tutto che questa gente maladetta   →

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in vera perfezion già mai non vada, di là più che di qua essere aspetta.”

Noi aggirammo a tondo quella strada, parlando più assai ch’i’ non ridico; venimmo al punto dove si digrada: quivi trovammo Pluto, il gran nemico.

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INFERNO VII

“Pape Satàn, pape Satàn aleppe!”   → cominciò Pluto con la voce chioccia; e quel savio gentil, che tutto seppe,

disse per confortarmi: “Non ti noccia la tua paura; ché, poder ch’elli abbia, non ci torrà lo scender questa roccia.”

Poi si rivolse a quella ’n�ata labbia, e disse: “Taci, maladetto lupo!   → consuma dentro te con la tua rabbia.

Non è sanza cagion l’andare al cupo:   → vuolsi ne l’alto, là dove Michele fé la vendetta del superbo strupo.”

Quali dal vento le gon�ate vele   → caggiono avvolte, poi che l’alber �acca, tal cadde a terra la �era crudele.

Così scendemmo ne la quarta lacca, pigliando più de la dolente ripa che ’l mal de l’universo tutto insacca.

Ahi giustizia di Dio! tante chi stipa   → nove travaglie e pene quant’ io viddi? e perché nostra colpa sì ne scipa?

Come fa l’onda là sovra Cariddi,   → che si frange con quella in cui s’intoppa, così convien che qui la gente riddi.   →

Qui vid’ i’ gente più ch’altrove troppa,   →

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e d’una parte e d’altra, con grand’ urli, voltando pesi per forza di poppa.

Percotëansi ’ncontro; e poscia pur lì si rivolgea ciascun, voltando a retro, gridando: “Perché tieni?” e “Perché burli?”

Così tornavan per lo cerchio tetro   → da ogne mano a l’opposito punto, gridandosi anche loro ontoso metro;

poi si volgea ciascun, quand’ era giunto, per lo suo mezzo cerchio a l’altra giostra. E io, ch’avea lo cor quasi compunto,   →

dissi: “Maestro mio, or mi dimostra che gente è questa, e se tutti fuor cherci   → questi chercuti a la sinistra nostra.”

Ed elli a me: “Tutti quanti fuor guerci sì de la mente in la vita primaia, che con misura nullo spendio ferci.

Assai la voce lor chiaro l’abbaia, quando vegnono a’ due punti del cerchio dove colpa contraria li dispaia.

Questi fuor cherci, che non han coperchio   → piloso al capo, e papi e cardinali, in cui usa avarizia il suo soperchio.”

E io: “Maestro, tra questi cotali dovre’ io ben riconoscere alcuni che furo immondi di cotesti mali.”

Ed elli a me: “Vano pensiero aduni: la sconoscente vita che i fé sozzi,

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ad ogne conoscenza or li fa bruni.

In etterno verranno a li due cozzi: questi resurgeranno del sepulcro col pugno chiuso, e questi coi crin mozzi.   →

Mal dare e mal tener lo mondo pulcro ha tolto loro, e posti a questa zu�a: qual ella sia, parole non ci appulcro.

Or puoi, �gliuol, veder la corta bu�a d’i ben che son commessi a la fortuna,   → per che l’umana gente si rabu�a;

ché tutto l’oro ch’è sotto la luna e che già fu, di quest’ anime stanche non poterebbe farne posare una.”

“Maestro mio,” diss’ io, “or mi dì anche: questa fortuna di che tu mi tocche, che è, che i ben del mondo ha sì tra branche?”

E quelli a me: “Oh creature sciocche,   → quanta ignoranza è quella che v’o�ende! Or vo’ che tu mia sentenza ne ’mbocche.

Colui lo cui saver tutto trascende, fece li cieli e diè lor chi conduce sì, ch’ogne parte ad ogne parte splende,

distribuendo igualmente la luce. Similemente a li splendor mondani ordinò general ministra e duce

che permutasse a tempo li ben vani di gente in gente e d’uno in altro sangue, oltre la difension d’i senni umani;

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per ch’una gente impera e l’altra langue, seguendo lo giudicio di costei, che è occulto come in erba l’angue.   →

Vostro saver non ha contasto a lei: questa provede, giudica, e persegue suo regno come il loro li altri dèi.   →

Le sue permutazion non hanno triegue: necessità la fa esser veloce; sì spesso vien chi vicenda consegue.   →

Quest’ è colei ch’è tanto posta in croce pur da color che le dovrien dar lode, dandole biasmo a torto e mala voce;

ma ella s’è beata e ciò non ode: con l’altre prime creature lieta volve sua spera e beata si gode.

Or discendiamo omai a maggior pieta; già ogne stella cade che saliva   → quand’ io mi mossi, e ’l troppo star si vieta.”

Noi ricidemmo il cerchio a l’altra riva sovr’ una fonte che bolle e riversa per un fossato che da lei deriva.

L’acqua era buia assai più che persa; e noi, in compagnia de l’onde bige, intrammo giù per una via diversa.

In la palude va c’ha nome Stige   → questo tristo ruscel, quand’ è disceso al piè de le maligne piagge grige.

E io, che di mirare stava inteso,   →

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vidi genti fangose in quel pantano, ignude tutte, con sembiante o�eso.

Queste si percotean non pur con mano, ma con la testa e col petto e coi piedi, troncandosi co’ denti a brano a brano.

Lo buon maestro disse: “Figlio, or vedi l’anime di color cui vinse l’ira; e anche vo’ che tu per certo credi

che sotto l’acqua è gente che sospira,   → e fanno pullular quest’ acqua al summo, come l’occhio ti dice, u’ che s’aggira.

Fitti nel limo dicon: ‘Tristi fummo ne l’aere dolce che dal sol s’allegra, portando dentro accidïoso fummo:

or ci attristiam ne la belletta negra.’ Quest’ inno si gorgoglian ne la strozza, ché dir nol posson con parola integra.”

Così girammo de la lorda pozza grand’ arco, tra la ripa secca e ’l mézzo, con li occhi vòlti a chi del fango ingozza. Venimmo al piè d’una torre al da sezzo.

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INFERNO VIII

Io dico, seguitando, ch’assai prima   → che noi fossimo al piè de l’alta torre, li occhi nostri n’andar suso a la cima

per due �ammette che i vedemmo porre,   → e un’altra da lungi render cenno, tanto ch’a pena il potea l’occhio tòrre.

E io mi volsi al mar di tutto ’l senno;   → dissi: “Questo che dice? e che risponde quell’ altro foco? e chi son quei che ’l fenno?”

Ed elli a me: “Su per le sucide onde già scorgere puoi quello che s’aspetta, se ’l fummo del pantan nol ti nasconde.”

Corda non pinse mai da sé saetta che sì corresse via per l’aere snella, com’ io vidi una nave piccioletta   →

venir per l’acqua verso noi in quella, sotto ’l governo d’un sol galeoto, che gridava: “Or se’ giunta, anima fella!”   →

“Flegïàs, Flegïàs, tu gridi a vòto,”   → disse lo mio segnore, “a questa volta:   → più non ci avrai che sol passando il loto.”

Qual è colui che grande inganno ascolta   → che li sia fatto, e poi se ne rammarca, fecesi Flegïàs ne l’ira accolta.

Lo duca mio discese ne la barca,   →

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e poi mi fece intrare appresso lui; e sol quand’ io fui dentro parve carca.

Tosto che ’l duca e io nel legno fui, segando se ne va l’antica prora de l’acqua più che non suol con altrui.

Mentre noi corravam la morta gora,   → dinanzi mi si fece un pien di fango,   → e disse: “Chi se’ tu che vieni anzi ora?”

E io a lui: “S’i’ vegno, non rimango; ma tu chi se’, che sì se’ fatto brutto?” Rispuose: “Vedi che son un che piango.”

E io a lui: “Con piangere e con lutto,   → spirito maladetto, ti rimani; ch’i’ ti conosco, ancor sie lordo tutto.”

Allor distese al legno ambo le mani;   → per che ’l maestro accorto lo sospinse, dicendo: “Via costà con li altri cani!”

Lo collo poi con le braccia mi cinse; basciommi ’l volto e disse: “Alma sdegnosa, benedetta colei che ’n te s’incinse!

Quei fu al mondo persona orgogliosa;   → bontà non è che sua memoria fregi: così s’è l’ombra sua qui furïosa.

Quanti si tegnon or là sù gran regi che qui staranno come porci in brago, di sé lasciando orribili dispregi!”

E io: “Maestro, molto sarei vago di vederlo attu�are in questa broda

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prima che noi uscissimo del lago.”

Ed elli a me: “Avante che la proda ti si lasci veder, tu sarai sazio: di tal disïo convien che tu goda.”

Dopo ciò poco vid’ io quello strazio far di costui a le fangose genti, che Dio ancor ne lodo e ne ringrazio.

Tutti gridavano: “A Filippo Argenti!”   → e ’l �orentino spirito bizzarro   → in sé medesmo si volvea co’ denti.   →

Quivi il lasciammo, che più non ne narro; ma ne l’orecchie mi percosse un duolo, per ch’io avante l’occhio intento sbarro.

Lo buon maestro disse: “Omai, �gliuolo, s’appressa la città c’ha nome Dite,   → coi gravi cittadin, col grande stuolo.”

E io: “Maestro, già le sue meschite   → là entro certe ne la valle cerno, vermiglie come se di foco uscite

fossero.” Ed ei mi disse: “Il foco etterno ch’entro l’a�oca le dimostra rosse, come tu vedi in questo basso inferno.”

Noi pur giugnemmo dentro a l’alte fosse che vallan quella terra sconsolata: le mura mi parean che ferro fosse.   →

Non sanza prima far grande aggirata, venimmo in parte dove il nocchier forte “Usciteci,” gridò: “qui è l’intrata.”   →

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Io vidi più di mille in su le porte   → da ciel piovuti, che stizzosamente dicean: “Chi è costui che sanza morte

va per lo regno de la morta gente?” E ’l savio mio maestro fece segno di voler lor parlar segretamente.

Allor chiusero un poco il gran disdegno e disser: “Vien tu solo, e quei sen vada che sì ardito intrò per questo regno.

Sol si ritorni per la folle strada: pruovi, se sa; ché tu qui rimarrai, che li ha’ iscorta sì buia contrada.”

Pensa, lettor, se io mi sconfortai   → nel suon de le parole maladette, ché non credetti ritornarci mai.

“O caro duca mio, che più di sette   → volte m’hai sicurtà renduta e tratto d’alto periglio che ’ncontra mi stette,

non mi lasciar,” diss’ io, “così disfatto; e se ’l passar più oltre ci è negato, ritroviam l’orme nostre insieme ratto.”

E quel segnor che lì m’avea menato, mi disse: “Non temer; ché ’l nostro passo   → non ci può tòrre alcun: da tal n’è dato.

Ma qui m’attendi, e lo spirito lasso   → conforta e ciba di speranza buona, ch’i’ non ti lascerò nel mondo basso.”

Così sen va, e quivi m’abbandona

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lo dolce padre, e io rimagno in forse, che sì e no nel capo mi tenciona.

Udir non potti quello ch’a lor porse; ma ei non stette là con essi guari, che ciascun dentro a pruova si ricorse.

Chiuser le porte que’ nostri avversari   → nel petto al mio segnor, che fuor rimase e rivolsesi a me con passi rari.

Li occhi a la terra e le ciglia avea rase d’ogne baldanza, e dicea ne’ sospiri: “Chi m’ha negate le dolenti case!”

E a me disse: “Tu, perch’ io m’adiri,   → non sbigottir, ch’io vincerò la prova, qual ch’a la difension dentro s’aggiri.

Questa lor tracotanza non è nova; ché già l’usaro a men segreta porta, la qual sanza serrame ancor si trova.

Sovr’ essa vedestù la scritta morta:   → e già di qua da lei discende l’erta,   → passando per li cerchi sanza scorta, tal che per lui ne �a la terra aperta.”

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INFERNO IX

Quel color che viltà di fuor mi pinse   → veggendo il duca mio tornare in volta, più tosto dentro il suo novo ristrinse.

Attento si fermò com’ uom ch’ascolta; ché l’occhio nol potea menare a lunga per l’aere nero e per la nebbia folta.

“Pur a noi converrà vincer la punga,”   → cominciò el, “se non … Tal ne s’o�erse. Oh quanto tarda a me ch’altri qui giunga!”

I’ vidi ben sì com’ ei ricoperse   → lo cominciar con l’altro che poi venne, che fur parole a le prime diverse;

ma nondimen paura il suo dir dienne, perch’ io traeva la parola tronca forse a peggior sentenzia che non tenne.

“In questo fondo de la trista conca discende mai alcun del primo grado,   → che sol per pena ha la speranza cionca?”

Questa question fec’ io; e quei “Di rado   → incontra,” mi rispuose, “che di noi faccia il cammino alcun per qual io vado.

Ver è ch’altra fïata qua giù fui, congiurato da quella Eritón cruda che richiamava l’ombre a’ corpi sui.

Di poco era di me la carne nuda,

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ch’ella mi fece intrar dentr’ a quel muro, per trarne un spirto del cerchio di Giuda.   →

Quell’ è ’l più basso loco e ’l più oscuro,   → e ’l più lontan dal ciel che tutto gira: ben so ’l cammin; però ti fa sicuro.

Questa palude che ’l gran puzzo spira cigne dintorno la città dolente, u’ non potemo intrare omai sanz’ ira.”   →

E altro disse, ma non l’ho a mente; però che l’occhio m’avea tutto tratto ver’ l’alta torre a la cima rovente,

dove in un punto furon dritte ratto tre furïe infernal di sangue tinte,   → che membra feminine avieno e atto,

e con idre verdissime eran cinte; serpentelli e ceraste avien per crine, onde le �ere tempie erano avvinte.

E quei, che ben conobbe le meschine de la regina de l’etterno pianto, “Guarda,” mi disse, “le feroci Erine.

Quest’ è Megera dal sinistro canto; quella che piange dal destro è Aletto; Tesifón è nel mezzo”; e tacque a tanto.

Con l’unghie si fendea ciascuna il petto; battiensi a palme e gridavan sì alto, ch’i’ mi strinsi al poeta per sospetto.

“Vegna Medusa: sì ’l farem di smalto,”   → dicevan tutte riguardando in giuso;

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“mal non vengiammo in Tesëo l’assalto.”   →

“Volgiti ’n dietro e tien lo viso chiuso; ché se ’l Gorgón si mostra e tu ’l vedessi, nulla sarebbe di tornar mai suso.”

Così disse ’l maestro; ed elli stessi   → mi volse, e non si tenne a le mie mani, che con le sue ancor non mi chiudessi.

O voi ch’avete li ’ntelletti sani, mirate la dottrina che s’asconde sotto ’l velame de li versi strani.

E già venìa su per le torbide onde   → un fracasso d’un suon, pien di spavento, per cui tremavano amendue le sponde,

non altrimenti fatto che d’un vento impetüoso per li avversi ardori, che �er la selva e sanz’ alcun rattento

li rami schianta, abbatte e porta fori; dinanzi polveroso va superbo, e fa fuggir le �ere e li pastori.

Li occhi mi sciolse e disse: “Or drizza il nerbo   → del viso su per quella schiuma antica per indi ove quel fummo è più acerbo.”

Come le rane innanzi a la nimica   → biscia per l’acqua si dileguan tutte, �n ch’a la terra ciascuna s’abbica,

vid’ io più di mille anime distrutte fuggir così dinanzi ad un ch’al passo passava Stige con le piante asciutte.   →

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Dal volto rimovea quell’ aere grasso,   → menando la sinistra innanzi spesso; e sol di quell’ angoscia parea lasso.

Ben m’accorsi ch’elli era da ciel messo,   → e volsimi al maestro; e quei fé segno   → ch’i’ stessi queto ed inchinassi ad esso.

Ahi quanto mi parea pien di disdegno! Venne a la porta e con una verghetta   → l’aperse, che non v’ebbe alcun ritegno.

“O cacciati del ciel, gente dispetta,”   → cominciò elli in su l’orribil soglia, “ond’ esta oltracotanza in voi s’alletta?   →

Perché recalcitrate a quella voglia a cui non puote il �n mai esser mozzo, e che più volte v’ha cresciuta doglia?

Che giova ne le fata dar di cozzo? Cerbero vostro, se ben vi ricorda, ne porta ancor pelato il mento e ’l gozzo.”

Poi si rivolse per la strada lorda,   → e non fé motto a noi, ma fé sembiante d’omo cui altra cura stringa e morda

che quella di colui che li è davante; e noi movemmo i piedi inver’ la terra, sicuri appresso le parole sante.

Dentro li ’ntrammo sanz’ alcuna guerra;   → e io, ch’avea di riguardar disio la condizion che tal fortezza serra,

com’ io fui dentro, l’occhio intorno invio:

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e veggio ad ogne man grande campagna, piena di duolo e di tormento rio.

Sì come ad Arli, ove Rodano stagna,   → sì com’ a Pola, presso del Carnaro ch’Italia chiude e suoi termini bagna,

fanno i sepulcri tutt’ il loco varo, così facevan quivi d’ogne parte, salvo che ’l modo v’era più amaro;

ché tra li avelli �amme erano sparte, per le quali eran sì del tutto accesi, che ferro più non chiede verun’ arte.

Tutti li lor coperchi eran sospesi, e fuor n’uscivan sì duri lamenti, che ben parean di miseri e d’o�esi.

E io: “Maestro, quai son quelle genti che, seppellite dentro da quell’ arche, si fan sentir coi sospiri dolenti?”

E quelli a me: “Qui son li eresïarche   → con lor seguaci, d’ogne setta, e molto più che non credi son le tombe carche.

Simile qui con simile è sepolto, e i monimenti son più e men caldi.” E poi ch’a la man destra si fu vòlto,   → passammo tra i martìri e li alti spaldi.

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INFERNO X

Ora sen va per un secreto calle,   → tra ’l muro de la terra e li martìri, lo mio maestro, e io dopo le spalle.

“O virtù somma, che per li empi giri mi volvi,” cominciai, “com’ a te piace,   → parlami, e sodisfammi a’ miei disiri.

La gente che per li sepolcri giace potrebbesi veder? già son levati   → tutt’ i coperchi, e nessun guardia face.”

E quelli a me: “Tutti saran serrati quando di Iosafàt qui torneranno   → coi corpi che là sù hanno lasciati.

Suo cimitero da questa parte hanno con Epicuro tutti suoi seguaci,   → che l’anima col corpo morta fanno.

Però a la dimanda che mi faci quinc’ entro satisfatto sarà tosto, e al disio ancor che tu mi taci.”   →

E io: “Buon duca, non tegno riposto a te mio cuor se non per dicer poco, e tu m’hai non pur mo a ciò disposto.”

“O Tosco che per la città del foco   → vivo ten vai così parlando onesto, piacciati di restare in questo loco.

La tua loquela ti fa manifesto   → di quella nobil patrïa natio,

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a la qual forse fui troppo molesto.”   →

Subitamente questo suono uscìo d’una de l’arche; però m’accostai, temendo, un poco più al duca mio.

Ed el mi disse: “Volgiti! Che fai? Vedi là Farinata che s’è dritto:   → da la cintola in sù tutto ’l vedrai.”   →

Io avea già il mio viso nel suo �tto; ed el s’ergea col petto e con la fronte   → com’ avesse l’inferno a gran dispitto.

E l’animose man del duca e pronte mi pinser tra le sepulture a lui, dicendo: “Le parole tue sien conte.”

Com’ io al piè de la sua tomba fui, guardommi un poco, e poi, quasi sdegnoso, mi dimandò: “Chi fuor li maggior tui?”   →

Io ch’era d’ubidir disideroso, non gliel celai, ma tutto gliel’ apersi; ond’ ei levò le ciglia un poco in suso;   →

poi disse: “Fieramente furo avversi   → a me e a miei primi e a mia parte, sì che per due fïate li dispersi.”

“S’ei fur cacciati, ei tornar d’ogne parte,”   → rispuos’ io lui, “l’una e l’altra fïata; ma i vostri non appreser ben quell’ arte.”

Allor surse a la vista scoperchiata   → un’ombra, lungo questa, in�no al mento: credo che s’era in ginocchie levata.

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Dintorno mi guardò, come talento avesse di veder s’altri era meco; e poi che ’l sospecciar fu tutto spento,

piangendo disse: “Se per questo cieco   → carcere vai per altezza d’ingegno,   → mio �glio ov’ è? e perché non è teco?”   →

E io a lui: “Da me stesso non vegno:   → colui ch’attende là per qui mi mena   → forse cui Guido vostro ebbe a disdegno.”

Le sue parole e ’l modo de la pena m’avean di costui già letto il nome; però fu la risposta così piena.

Di sùbito drizzato gridò: “Come?   → dicesti ‘elli ebbe’? non viv’ elli ancora? non �ere li occhi suoi lo dolce lume?”

Quando s’accorse d’alcuna dimora   → ch’io facëa dinanzi a la risposta, supin ricadde e più non parve fora.

Ma quell’ altro magnanimo, a cui posta   → restato m’era, non mutò aspetto, né mosse collo, né piegò sua costa;

e sé continüando al primo detto,   → “S’elli han quell’ arte,” disse, “male appresa, ciò mi tormenta più che questo letto.

Ma non cinquanta volte �a raccesa   → la faccia de la donna che qui regge, che tu saprai quanto quell’ arte pesa.

E se tu mai nel dolce mondo regge,   →

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dimmi: perché quel popolo è sì empio incontr’ a’ miei in ciascuna sua legge?”

Ond’ io a lui: “Lo strazio e ’l grande scempio   → che fece l’Arbia colorata in rosso, tal orazion fa far nel nostro tempio.”

Poi ch’ebbe sospirando il capo mosso, “A ciò non fu’ io sol,” disse, “né certo   → sanza cagion con li altri sarei mosso.

Ma fu’ io solo, là dove so�erto fu per ciascun di tòrre via Fiorenza, colui che la difesi a viso aperto.”

“Deh, se riposi mai vostra semenza,”   → prega’ io lui, “solvetemi quel nodo che qui ha ’nviluppata mia sentenza.

El par che voi veggiate, se ben odo, dinanzi quel che ’l tempo seco adduce, e nel presente tenete altro modo.”

“Noi veggiam, come quei c’ha mala luce,   → le cose,” disse, “che ne son lontano; cotanto ancor ne splende il sommo duce.

Quando s’appressano o son, tutto è vano nostro intelletto; e s’altri non ci apporta, nulla sapem di vostro stato umano.

Però comprender puoi che tutta morta �a nostra conoscenza da quel punto che del futuro �a chiusa la porta.”

Allor, come di mia colpa compunto,   → dissi: “Or direte dunque a quel caduto

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che ’l suo nato è co’ vivi ancor congiunto;

e s’i’ fui, dianzi, a la risposta muto, fate i saper che ’l fei perché pensava già ne l’error che m’avete soluto.”

E già ’l maestro mio mi richiamava; per ch’i’ pregai lo spirto più avaccio che mi dicesse chi con lu’ istava.

Dissemi: “Qui con più di mille giaccio: qua dentro è ’l secondo Federico   → e ’l Cardinale; e de li altri mi taccio.”   →

Indi s’ascose; e io inver’ l’antico poeta volsi i passi, ripensando a quel parlar che mi parea nemico.   →

Elli si mosse; e poi, così andando, mi disse: “Perché se’ tu sì smarrito?”   → E io li sodisfeci al suo dimando.

“La mente tua conservi quel ch’udito hai contra te,” mi comandò quel saggio; “e ora attendi qui,” e drizzò ’l dito:

“quando sarai dinanzi al dolce raggio   → di quella il cui bell’ occhio tutto vede, da lei saprai di tua vita il vïaggio.”

Appresso mosse a man sinistra il piede:   → lasciammo il muro e gimmo inver’ lo mezzo per un sentier ch’a una valle �ede, che ’n�n là sù facea spiacer suo lezzo.

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INFERNO XI

In su l’estremità d’un’alta ripa che facevan gran pietre rotte in cerchio, venimmo sopra più crudele stipa;   →

e quivi, per l’orribile soperchio del puzzo che ’l profondo abisso gitta, ci raccostammo, in dietro, ad un coperchio   →

d’un grand’ avello, ov’ io vidi una scritta che dicea: “Anastasio papa guardo,   → lo qual trasse Fotin de la via dritta.”

“Lo nostro scender conviene esser tardo,   → sì che s’ausi un poco in prima il senso al tristo �ato; e poi no i �a riguardo.”

Così ’l maestro; e io “Alcun compenso,” dissi lui, “trova che ’l tempo non passi perduto.” Ed elli: “Vedi ch’a ciò penso.”

“Figliuol mio, dentro da cotesti sassi,” cominciò poi a dir, “son tre cerchietti di grado in grado, come que’ che lassi.

Tutti son pien di spirti maladetti; ma perché poi ti basti pur la vista, intendi come e perché son costretti.

D’ogne malizia, ch’odio in cielo acquista,   → ingiuria è ’l �ne, ed ogne �n cotale o con forza o con frode altrui contrista.

Ma perché frode è de l’uom proprio male,

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più spiace a Dio; e però stan di sotto li frodolenti, e più dolor li assale.

Di vïolenti il primo cerchio è tutto;   → ma perché si fa forza a tre persone, in tre gironi è distinto e costrutto.

A Dio, a sé, al prossimo si pòne far forza, dico in loro e in lor cose, come udirai con aperta ragione.

Morte per forza e ferute dogliose   → nel prossimo si danno, e nel suo avere ruine, incendi e tollette dannose;

onde omicide e ciascun che mal �ere, guastatori e predon, tutti tormenta lo giron primo per diverse schiere.

Puote omo avere in sé man vïolenta   → e ne’ suoi beni; e però nel secondo giron convien che sanza pro si penta

qualunque priva sé del vostro mondo, biscazza e fonde la sua facultade, e piange là dov’ esser de’ giocondo.

Puossi far forza ne la deïtade,   → col cor negando e bestemmiando quella, e spregiando natura e sua bontade;

e però lo minor giron suggella del segno suo e Soddoma e Caorsa e chi, spregiando Dio col cor, favella.

La frode, ond’ ogne coscïenza è morsa,   → può l’omo usare in colui che ’n lui �da

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e in quel che �danza non imborsa.

Questo modo di retro par ch’incida pur lo vinco d’amor che fa natura; onde nel cerchio secondo s’annida

ipocresia, lusinghe e chi a�attura, falsità, ladroneccio e simonia, ru�an, baratti e simile lordura.

Per l’altro modo quell’ amor s’oblia   → che fa natura, e quel ch’è poi aggiunto, di che la fede spezïal si cria;

onde nel cerchio minore, ov’ è ’l punto de l’universo in su che Dite siede, qualunque trade in etterno è consunto.”

E io: “Maestro, assai chiara procede   → la tua ragione, e assai ben distingue questo baràtro e ’l popol ch’e’ possiede.

Ma dimmi: quei de la palude pingue, che mena il vento, e che batte la pioggia, e che s’incontran con sì aspre lingue,

perché non dentro da la città roggia sono ei puniti, se Dio li ha in ira? e se non li ha, perché sono a tal foggia?”

Ed elli a me “Perché tanto delira,”   → disse, “lo ’ngegno tuo da quel che sòle? o ver la mente dove altrove mira?

Non ti rimembra di quelle parole con le quai la tua Etica pertratta le tre disposizion che ’l ciel non vole,

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incontenenza, malizia e la matta bestialitade? e come incontenenza men Dio o�ende e men biasimo accatta?

Se tu riguardi ben questa sentenza, e rechiti a la mente chi son quelli che sù di fuor sostegnon penitenza,

tu vedrai ben perché da questi felli sien dipartiti, e perché men crucciata la divina vendetta li martelli.”

“O sol che sani ogne vista turbata,   → tu mi contenti sì quando tu solvi, che, non men che saver, dubbiar m’aggrata.

Ancora in dietro un poco ti rivolvi,” diss’ io, “là dove di’ ch’usura o�ende la divina bontade, e ’l groppo solvi.”

“Filoso�a,” mi disse, “a chi la ’ntende,   → nota, non pure in una sola parte, come natura lo suo corso prende

dal divino ’ntelletto e da sua arte; e se tu ben la tua Fisica note, tu troverai, non dopo molte carte,

che l’arte vostra quella, quanto pote, segue, come ’l maestro fa ’l discente; sì che vostr’ arte a Dio quasi è nepote.

Da queste due, se tu ti rechi a mente lo Genesì dal principio, convene prender sua vita e avanzar la gente;

e perché l’usuriere altra via tene,

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per sé natura e per la sua seguace dispregia, poi ch’in altro pon la spene.

Ma seguimi oramai che ’l gir mi piace;   → ché i Pesci guizzan su per l’orizzonta, e ’l Carro tutto sovra ’l Coro giace, e ’l balzo via là oltra si dismonta.”

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INFERNO XII

Era lo loco ov’ a scender la riva venimmo, alpestro e, per quel che v’er’ anco, tal, ch’ogne vista ne sarebbe schiva.

Qual è quella ruina che nel �anco   → di qua da Trento l’Adice percosse, o per tremoto o per sostegno manco,

che da cima del monte, onde si mosse, al piano è sì la roccia discoscesa, ch’alcuna via darebbe a chi sù fosse:

cotal di quel burrato era la scesa; e ’n su la punta de la rotta lacca l’infamïa di Creti era distesa   →

che fu concetta ne la falsa vacca; e quando vide noi, sé stesso morse, sì come quei cui l’ira dentro �acca.

Lo savio mio inver’ lui gridò: “Forse   → tu credi che qui sia ’l duca d’Atene, che sù nel mondo la morte ti porse?

Pàrtiti, bestia, ché questi non vene ammaestrato da la tua sorella, ma vassi per veder le vostre pene.”

Qual è quel toro che si slaccia in quella   → c’ha ricevuto già ’l colpo mortale, che gir non sa, ma qua e là saltella,

vid’ io lo Minotauro far cotale;

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e quello accorto gridò: “Corri al varco; mentre ch’e’ ’nfuria, è buon che tu ti cale.”

Così prendemmo via giù per lo scarco   → di quelle pietre, che spesso moviensi sotto i miei piedi per lo novo carco.

Io gia pensando; e quei disse: “Tu pensi forse a questa ruina, ch’è guardata   → da quell’ ira bestial ch’i’ ora spensi.   →

Or vo’ che sappi che l’altra fïata   → ch’i’ discesi qua giù nel basso inferno, questa roccia non era ancor cascata.

Ma certo poco pria, se ben discerno, che venisse colui che la gran preda levò a Dite del cerchio superno,   →

da tutte parti l’alta valle feda   → tremò sì, ch’i’ pensai che l’universo sentisse amor, per lo qual è chi creda

più volte il mondo in caòsso converso; e in quel punto questa vecchia roccia, qui e altrove, tal fece riverso.

Ma �cca li occhi a valle, ché s’approccia la riviera del sangue in la qual bolle qual che per vïolenza in altrui noccia.”   →

Oh cieca cupidigia e ira folle,   → che sì ci sproni ne la vita corta, e ne l’etterna poi sì mal c’immolle!

Io vidi un’ampia fossa in arco torta, come quella che tutto ’l piano abbraccia,

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secondo ch’avea detto la mia scorta;

e tra ’l piè de la ripa ed essa, in traccia corrien centauri, armati di saette,   → come solien nel mondo andare a caccia.

Veggendoci calar, ciascun ristette,   → e de la schiera tre si dipartiro con archi e asticciuole prima elette;

e l’un gridò da lungi: “A qual martiro venite voi che scendete la costa? Ditel costinci; se non, l’arco tiro.”

Lo mio maestro disse: “La risposta   → farem noi a Chirón costà di presso: mal fu la voglia tua sempre sì tosta.”

Poi mi tentò, e disse: “Quelli è Nesso,   → che morì per la bella Deianira, e fé di sé la vendetta elli stesso.

E quel di mezzo, ch’al petto si mira,   → è il gran Chirón, il qual nodrì Achille; quell’ altro è Folo, che fu sì pien d’ira.   →

Dintorno al fosso vanno a mille a mille, saettando qual anima si svelle del sangue più che sua colpa sortille.”   →

Noi ci appressammo a quelle �ere isnelle:   → Chirón prese uno strale, e con la cocca fece la barba in dietro a le mascelle.

Quando s’ebbe scoperta la gran bocca, disse a’ compagni: “Siete voi accorti che quel di retro move ciò ch’el tocca?

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Così non soglion far li piè d’i morti.” E ’l mio buon duca, che già li er’ al petto, dove le due nature son consorti,

rispuose: “Ben è vivo, e sì soletto mostrar li mi convien la valle buia; necessità ’l ci ’nduce, e non diletto.

Tal si partì da cantare alleluia   → che mi commise quest’ o�cio novo: non è ladron, né io anima fuia.

Ma per quella virtù per cu’ io movo li passi miei per sì selvaggia strada, danne un de’ tuoi, a cui noi siamo a provo,   →

e che ne mostri là dove si guada, e che porti costui in su la groppa, ché non è spirto che per l’aere vada.”

Chirón si volse in su la destra poppa,   → e disse a Nesso: “Torna, e sì li guida, e fa cansar s’altra schiera v’intoppa.”

Or ci movemmo con la scorta �da lungo la proda del bollor vermiglio, dove i bolliti facieno alte strida.

Io vidi gente sotto in�no al ciglio; e ’l gran centauro disse: “E’ son tiranni   → che dier nel sangue e ne l’aver di piglio.

Quivi si piangon li spietati danni;   → quivi è Alessandro, e Dïonisio fero che fé Cicilia aver dolorosi anni.

E quella fronte c’ha ’l pel così nero,

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è Azzolino; e quell’ altro ch’è biondo, è Opizzo da Esti, il qual per vero

fu spento dal �gliastro sù nel mondo.” Allor mi volsi al poeta, e quei disse: “Questi ti sia or primo, e io secondo.”   →

Poco più oltre il centauro s’a�sse sovr’ una gente che ’n�no a la gola   → parea che di quel bulicame uscisse.

Mostrocci un’ombra da l’un canto sola, dicendo: “Colui fesse in grembo a Dio lo cor che ’n su Tamisi ancor si cola.”

Poi vidi gente che di fuor del rio   → tenean la testa e ancor tutto ’l casso; e di costoro assai riconobb’ io.

Così a più a più si facea basso   → quel sangue, sì che cocea pur li piedi; e quindi fu del fosso il nostro passo.   →

“Sì come tu da questa parte vedi   → lo bulicame che sempre si scema,” disse ’l centauro, “voglio che tu credi

che da quest’ altra a più a più giù prema lo fondo suo, in�n ch’el si raggiunge ove la tirannia convien che gema.

La divina giustizia di qua punge   → quell’ Attila che fu �agello in terra, e Pirro e Sesto; e in etterno munge

le lagrime, che col bollor diserra,   → a Rinier da Corneto, a Rinier Pazzo,

139 che fecero a le strade tanta guerra.” Poi si rivolse e ripassossi ’l guazzo.   →

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INFERNO XIII

Non era ancor di là Nesso arrivato,   → quando noi ci mettemmo per un bosco che da neun sentiero era segnato.

Non fronda verde, ma di color fosco;   → non rami schietti, ma nodosi e ’nvolti; non pomi v’eran, ma stecchi con tòsco.

Non han sì aspri sterpi né sì folti quelle �ere selvagge che ’n odio hanno tra Cecina e Corneto i luoghi cólti.

Quivi le brutte Arpie lor nidi fanno,   → che cacciar de le Strofade i Troiani con tristo annunzio di futuro danno.

Ali hanno late, e colli e visi umani, piè con artigli, e pennuto ’l gran ventre; fanno lamenti in su li alberi strani.

E ’l buon maestro “Prima che più entre, sappi che se’ nel secondo girone,” mi cominciò a dire, “e sarai mentre

che tu verrai ne l’orribil sabbione. Però riguarda ben; sì vederai   → cose che torrien fede al mio sermone.”

Io sentia d’ogne parte trarre guai e non vedea persona che ’l facesse; per ch’io tutto smarrito m’arrestai.   →

Cred’ ïo ch’ei credette ch’io credesse   →

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che tante voci uscisser, tra quei bronchi, da gente che per noi si nascondesse.

Però disse ’l maestro: “Se tu tronchi qualche fraschetta d’una d’este piante, li pensier c’hai si faran tutti monchi.”

Allor porsi la mano un poco avante   → e colsi un ramicel da un gran pruno; e ’l tronco suo gridò: “Perché mi schiante?”

Da che fatto fu poi di sangue bruno, ricominciò a dir: “Perché mi scerpi? non hai tu spirto di pietade alcuno?

Uomini fummo, e or siam fatti sterpi: ben dovrebb’ esser la tua man più pia, se state fossimo anime di serpi.”

Come d’un stizzo verde ch’arso sia   → da l’un de’ capi, che da l’altro geme e cigola per vento che va via,

sì de la scheggia rotta usciva insieme parole e sangue; ond’ io lasciai la cima cadere, e stetti come l’uom che teme.

“S’elli avesse potuto creder prima,”   → rispuose ’l savio mio, “anima lesa, ciò c’ha veduto pur con la mia rima,

non averebbe in te la man distesa; ma la cosa incredibile mi fece indurlo ad ovra ch’a me stesso pesa.

Ma dilli chi tu fosti, si che ’n vece   → d’alcun’ ammenda tua fama rinfreschi

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nel mondo sù, dove tornar li lece.”

E ’l tronco: “Si col dolce dir m’adeschi,   → ch’i’ non posso tacere; e voi non gravi perch’ ïo un poco a ragionar m’inveschi.

Io son colui che tenni ambo le chiavi   → del cor di Federigo, e che le volsi, serrando e diserrando, sì soavi,

che dal secreto suo quasi ogn’ uom tolsi; fede portai al glorïoso o�zio, tanto ch’i’ ne perde’ li sonni e ’ polsi.

La meretrice che mai da l’ospizio   → di Cesare non torse li occhi putti, morte comune e de le corti vizio,

in�ammò contra me li animi tutti; e li ’n�ammati in�ammar sì Augusto,   → che ’ lieti onor tornaro in tristi lutti.

L’animo mio, per disdegnoso gusto,   → credendo col morir fuggir disdegno, ingiusto fece me contra me giusto.

Per le nove radici d’esto legno   → vi giuro che già mai non ruppi fede al mio segnor, che fu d’onor sì degno.

E se di voi alcun nel mondo riede, conforti la memoria mia, che giace ancor del colpo che ’nvidia le diede.”

Un poco attese, e poi “Da ch’el si tace,” disse ’l poeta a me, “non perder l’ora; ma parla, e chiedi a lui, se più ti piace.”

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Ond’ ïo a lui: “Domandal tu ancora   → di quel che credi ch’a me satisfaccia; ch’i’ non potrei, tanta pietà m’accora.”

Perciò ricominciò: “Se l’om ti faccia liberamente ciò che ’l tuo dir priega, spirito incarcerato, ancor ti piaccia

di dirne come l’anima si lega in questi nocchi; e dinne, se tu puoi, s’alcuna mai di tai membra si spiega.”

Allor so�ò il tronco forte, e poi si convertì quel vento in cotal voce: “Brievemente sarà risposto a voi.

Quando si parte l’anima feroce dal corpo ond’ ella stessa s’è disvelta, Minòs la manda a la settima foce.

Cade in la selva, e non l’è parte scelta; ma là dove fortuna la balestra, quivi germoglia come gran di spelta.

Surge in vermena e in pianta silvestra: l’Arpie, pascendo poi de le sue foglie, fanno dolore, e al dolor fenestra.

Come l’altre verrem per nostre spoglie, ma non però ch’alcuna sen rivesta, ché non è giusto aver ciò ch’om si toglie.

Qui le strascineremo, e per la mesta selva saranno i nostri corpi appesi, ciascuno al prun de l’ombra sua molesta.”

Noi eravamo ancora al tronco attesi,   →

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credendo ch’altro ne volesse dire, quando noi fummo d’un romor sorpresi,

similemente a colui che venire sente ’l porco e la caccia a la sua posta, ch’ode le bestie, e le frasche stormire.

Ed ecco due da la sinistra costa, nudi e gra�ati, fuggendo sì forte, che de la selva rompieno ogne rosta.

Quel dinanzi: “Or accorri, accorri, morte!” E l’altro, cui pareva tardar troppo, gridava: “Lano, sì non furo accorte

le gambe tue a le giostre dal Toppo!” E poi che forse li fallia la lena, di sé e d’un cespuglio fece un groppo.

Di rietro a loro era la selva piena di nere cagne, bramose e correnti come veltri ch’uscisser di catena.

In quel che s’appiattò miser li denti, e quel dilaceraro a brano a brano; poi sen portar quelle membra dolenti.

Presemi allor la mia scorta per mano,   → e menommi al cespuglio che piangea per le rotture sanguinenti in vano.

“O Iacopo,” dicea, “da Santo Andrea, che t’è giovato di me fare schermo? che colpa ho io de la tua vita rea?”

Quando ’l maestro fu sovr’ esso fermo, disse: “Chi fosti, che per tante punte

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so� con sangue doloroso sermo?”

Ed elli a noi: “O anime che giunte   → siete a veder lo strazio disonesto c’ha le mie fronde sì da me disgiunte,

raccoglietele al piè del tristo cesto. I’ fui de la città che nel Batista mutò ’l primo padrone; ond’ ei per questo

sempre con l’arte sua la farà trista; e se non fosse che ’n sul passo d’Arno rimane ancor di lui alcuna vista,

que’ cittadin che poi la rifondarno sovra ’l cener che d’Attila rimase, avrebber fatto lavorare indarno. Io fei gibetto a me de le mie case.”

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INFERNO XIV

Poi che la carità del natio loco   → mi strinse, raunai le fronde sparte e rende’le a colui, ch’era già �oco.

Indi venimmo al �ne ove si parte   → lo secondo giron dal terzo, e dove si vede di giustizia orribil arte.

A ben manifestar le cose nove,   → dico che arrivammo ad una landa che dal suo letto ogne pianta rimove.

La dolorosa selva l’è ghirlanda intorno, come ’l fosso tristo ad essa; quivi fermammo i passi a randa a randa.

Lo spazzo era una rena arida e spessa, non d’altra foggia fatta che colei   → che fu da’ piè di Caton già soppressa.

O vendetta di Dio, quanto tu dei esser temuta da ciascun che legge ciò che fu manifesto a li occhi mei!

D’anime nude vidi molte gregge   → che piangean tutte assai miseramente, e parea posta lor diversa legge.

Supin giacea in terra alcuna gente, alcuna si sedea tutta raccolta, e altra andava continüamente.

Quella che giva ’ntorno era più molta,

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e quella men che giacëa al tormento, ma più al duolo avea la lingua sciolta.

Sovra tutto ’l sabbion, d’un cader lento,   → piovean di foco dilatate falde, come di neve in alpe sanza vento.   →

Quali Alessandro in quelle parti calde   → d’Indïa vide sopra ’l süo stuolo �amme cadere in�no a terra salde,

per ch’ei provide a scalpitar lo suolo con le sue schiere, acciò che lo vapore mei si stingueva mentre ch’era solo:

tale scendeva l’etternale ardore; onde la rena s’accendea, com’ esca sotto focile, a doppiar lo dolore.

Sanza riposo mai era la tresca   → de le misere mani, or quindi or quinci escotendo da sé l’arsura fresca.

I’ cominciai: “Maestro, tu che vinci   → tutte le cose, fuor che ’ demon duri ch’a l’intrar de la porta incontra uscinci,

chi è quel grande che non par che curi   → lo ’ncendio e giace dispettoso e torto, sì che la pioggia non par che ’l marturi?”

E quel medesmo, che si fu accorto   → ch’io domandava il mio duca di lui, gridò: “Qual io fui vivo, tal son morto.   →

Se Giove stanchi ’l suo fabbro da cui crucciato prese la folgore aguta

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onde l’ultimo dì percosso fui;

o s’elli stanchi li altri a muta a muta in Mongibello a la focina negra, chiamando ‘Buon Vulcano, aiuta, aiuta!’

sì com’ el fece a la pugna di Flegra, e me saetti con tutta sua forza: non ne potrebbe aver vendetta allegra.”

Allora il duca mio parlò di forza   → tanto, ch’i’ non l’avea sì forte udito: “O Capaneo, in ciò che non s’ammorza

la tua superbia, se’ tu più punito; nullo martiro, fuor che la tua rabbia, sarebbe al tuo furor dolor compito.”

Poi si rivolse a me con miglior labbia, dicendo: “Quei fu l’un d’i sette regi ch’assiser Tebe; ed ebbe e par ch’elli abbia   →

Dio in disdegno, e poco par che ’l pregi; ma, com’ io dissi lui, li suoi dispetti sono al suo petto assai debiti fregi.

Or mi vien dietro, e guarda che non metti, ancor, li piedi ne la rena arsiccia; ma sempre al bosco tien li piedi stretti.”

Tacendo divenimmo là ’ve spiccia   → fuor de la selva un picciol �umicello, lo cui rossore ancor mi raccapriccia.

Quale del Bulicame esce ruscello che parton poi tra lor le peccatrici, tal per la rena giù sen giva quello.

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Lo fondo suo e ambo le pendici fatt’ era ’n pietra, e ’ margini da lato; per ch’io m’accorsi che ’l passo era lici.

“Tra tutto l’altro ch’i’ t’ho dimostrato, poscia che noi intrammo per la porta lo cui sogliare a nessuno è negato,

cosa non fu da li tuoi occhi scorta notabile com’ è ’l presente rio, che sovra sé tutte �ammelle ammorta.”

Queste parole fuor del duca mio; per ch’io ’l pregai che mi largisse ’l pasto di cui largito m’avëa il disio.

“In mezzo mar siede un paese guasto,”   →   → diss’ elli allora, “che s’appella Creta, sotto ’l cui rege fu già ’l mondo casto.

Una montagna v’è che già fu lieta d’acqua e di fronde, che si chiamò Ida; or è diserta come cosa vieta.

Rëa la scelse già per cuna �da del suo �gliuolo, e per celarlo meglio, quando piangea, vi facea far le grida.

Dentro dal monte sta dritto un gran veglio,   → che tien volte le spalle inver’ Dammiata e Roma guarda come süo speglio.

La sua testa è di �n oro formata, e puro argento son le braccia e ’l petto, poi è di rame in�no a la forcata;

da indi in giuso è tutto ferro eletto,

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salvo che ’l destro piede è terra cotta; e sta ’n su quel, più che ’n su l’altro, eretto.

Ciascuna parte, fuor che l’oro, è rotta   → d’una fessura che lagrime goccia, le quali, accolte, fóran quella grotta.

Lor corso in questa valle si diroccia;   → fanno Acheronte, Stige e Flegetonta; poi sen van giù per questa stretta doccia,

in�n, là ove più non si dismonta, fanno Cocito; e qual sia quello stagno tu lo vedrai, però qui non si conta.”

E io a lui: “Se ’l presente rigagno si diriva così dal nostro mondo, perché ci appar pur a questo vivagno?”

Ed elli a me: “Tu sai che ’l loco è tondo; e tutto che tu sie venuto molto, pur a sinistra, giù calando al fondo,

non se’ ancor per tutto ’l cerchio vòlto; per che, se cosa n’apparisce nova, non de’ addur maraviglia al tuo volto.”

E io ancor: “Maestro, ove si trova   → Flegetonta e Letè? ché de l’un taci, e l’altro di’ che si fa d’esta piova.”

“In tutte tue question certo mi piaci,” rispuose, “ma ’l bollor de l’acqua rossa dovea ben solver l’una che tu faci.

Letè vedrai, ma fuor di questa fossa, là dove vanno l’anime a lavarsi

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quando la colpa pentuta è rimossa.”

Poi disse: “Omai è tempo da scostarsi   → dal bosco; fa che di retro a me vegne: li margini fan via, che non son arsi, e sopra loro ogne vapor si spegne.”

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INFERNO XV

Ora cen porta l’un de’ duri margini;   → e ’l fummo del ruscel di sopra aduggia, sì che dal foco salva l’acqua e li argini.

Quali Fiamminghi tra Guizzante e Bruggia,   → temendo ’l �otto che ’nver’ lor s’avventa; fanno lo schermo perché ’l mar si fuggia;

e quali Padoan lungo la Brenta, per difender lor ville e lor castelli, anzi che Carentana il caldo senta:

a tale imagine eran fatti quelli, tutto che né sì alti né sì grossi, qual che si fosse, lo maestro félli.

Già eravam da la selva rimossi   → tanto, ch’i’ non avrei visto dov’ era, perch’ io in dietro rivolto mi fossi,

quando incontrammo d’anime una schiera che venian lungo l’argine, e ciascuna ci riguardava come suol da sera

guardare uno altro sotto nuova luna; e sì ver’ noi aguzzavan le ciglia come ’l vecchio sartor fa ne la cruna.

Così adocchiato da cotal famiglia, fui conosciuto da un, che mi prese   → per lo lembo e gridò: “Qual maraviglia!”

E io, quando ’l suo braccio a me distese, �ccaï li occhi per lo cotto aspetto,

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sì che ’l viso abbrusciato non difese

la conoscenza süa al mio ’ntelletto;   → e chinando la mano a la sua faccia, rispuosi: “Siete voi qui, ser Brunetto?”

E quelli: “O �gliuol mio, non ti dispiaccia se Brunetto Latino un poco teco ritorna ’n dietro e lascia andar la traccia.”

I’ dissi lui: “Quanto posso, ven preco; e se volete che con voi m’asseggia, faròl, se piace a costui che vo seco.”

“O �gliuol,” disse, “qual di questa greggia s’arresta punto, giace poi cent’ anni sanz’ arrostarsi quando ’l foco il feggia.

Però va oltre: i’ ti verrò a’ panni; e poi rigiugnerò la mia masnada, che va piangendo i suoi etterni danni.”

Io non osava scender de la strada per andar par di lui; ma ’l capo chino tenea com’ uom che reverente vada.

El cominciò: “Qual fortuna o destino anzi l’ultimo dì qua giù ti mena? e chi è questi che mostra ’l cammino?”   →

“Là sù di sopra, in la vita serena,” rispuos’ io lui, “mi smarri’ in una valle,   → avanti che l’età mia fosse piena.

Pur ier mattina le volsi le spalle: questi m’apparve, tornand’ïo in quella, e reducemi a ca per questo calle.”   →

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Ed elli a me: “Se tu segui tua stella,   → non puoi fallire a glorïoso porto, se ben m’accorsi ne la vita bella;

e s’io non fossi sì per tempo morto,   → veggendo il cielo a te così benigno, dato t’avrei a l’opera conforto.

Ma quello ingrato popolo maligno   → che discese di Fiesole ab antico, e tiene ancor del monte e del macigno,

ti si farà, per tuo ben far, nimico; ed è ragion, ché tra li lazzi sorbi si disconvien fruttare al dolce �co.

Vecchia fama nel mondo li chiama orbi; gent’ è avara, invidiosa e superba: dai lor costumi fa che tu ti forbi.

La tua fortuna tanto onor ti serba, che l’una parte e l’altra avranno fame di te; ma lungi �a dal becco l’erba.

Faccian le bestie �esolane strame di lor medesme, e non tocchin la pianta, s’alcuna surge ancora in lor letame,

in cui riviva la sementa santa di que’ Roman che vi rimaser quando fu fatto il nido di malizia tanta.”

“Se fosse tutto pieno il mio dimando,” rispuos’ io lui, “voi non sareste ancora de l’umana natura posto in bando;

ché ’n la mente m’è �tta, e or m’accora,

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la cara e buona imagine paterna   → di voi quando nel mondo ad ora ad ora

m’insegnavate come l’uom s’etterna: e quant’ io l’abbia in grado, mentr’ io vivo convien che ne la mia lingua si scerna.

Ciò che narrate di mio corso scrivo,   → e serbolo a chiosar con altro testo a donna che saprà, s’a lei arrivo.

Tanto vogl’ io che vi sia manifesto,   → pur che mia coscïenza non mi garra, ch’a la Fortuna, come vuol, son presto.

Non è nuova a li orecchi miei tal arra: però giri Fortuna la sua rota   → come le piace, e ’l villan la sua marra.”

Lo mio maestro allora in su la gota destra si volse in dietro e riguardommi; poi disse: “Bene ascolta chi la nota.”   →

Né per tanto di men parlando vommi con ser Brunetto, e dimando chi sono li suoi compagni più noti e più sommi.

Ed elli a me: “Saper d’alcuno è buono; de li altri �a laudabile tacerci, ché ’l tempo saria corto a tanto suono.

In somma sappi che tutti fur cherci   → e litterati grandi e di gran fama, d’un peccato medesmo al mondo lerci.

Priscian sen va con quella turba grama, e Francesco d’Accorso anche; e vedervi,

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s’avessi avuto di tal tigna brama,

colui potei che dal servo de’ servi fu trasmutato d’Arno in Bacchiglione, dove lasciò li mal protesi nervi.

Di più direi; ma ’l venire e ’l sermone più lungo esser non può, però ch’i’ veggio là surger nuovo fummo del sabbione.

Gente vien con la quale esser non deggio.   → Sieti raccomandato il mio Tesoro,   → nel qual io vivo ancora, e più non cheggio.”

Poi si rivolse e parve di coloro   → che corrono a Verona il drappo verde per la campagna; e parve di costoro quelli che vince, non colui che perde.

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INFERNO XVI

Già era in loco onde s’udia ’l rimbombo   → de l’acqua che cadea ne l’altro giro, simile a quel che l’arnie fanno rombo,

quando tre ombre insieme si partiro, correndo, d’una torma che passava sotto la pioggia de l’aspro martiro.

Venian ver’ noi, e ciascuna gridava: “Sòstati tu ch’a l’abito ne sembri essere alcun di nostra terra prava.”

Ahimè, che piaghe vidi ne’ lor membri, ricenti e vecchie, da le �amme incese! Ancor men duol pur ch’i’ me ne rimembri.

A le lor grida il mio dottor s’attese; volse ’l viso ver’ me, e “Or aspetta,” disse, “a costor si vuole esser cortese.   →

E se non fosse il foco che saetta la natura del loco, i’ dicerei che meglio stesse a te che a lor la fretta.”

Ricominciar, come noi restammo, ei   → l’antico verso; e quando a noi fuor giunti, fenno una rota di sé tutti e trei.

Qual sogliono i campion far nudi e unti, avvisando lor presa e lor vantaggio, prima che sien tra lor battuti e punti,

così rotando, ciascuno il visaggio

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drizzava a me, sì che ’n contraro il collo faceva ai piè continüo vïaggio.

E “Se miseria d’esto loco sollo   → rende in dispetto noi e nostri prieghi,” cominciò l’uno, “e ’l tinto aspetto e brollo,

la fama nostra il tuo animo pieghi a dirne chi tu se’, che i vivi piedi così sicuro per lo ’nferno freghi.

Questi, l’orme di cui pestar mi vedi, tutto che nudo e dipelato vada, fu di grado maggior che tu non credi:

nepote fu de la buona Gualdrada; Guido Guerra ebbe nome, e in sua vita fece col senno assai e con la spada.

L’altro, ch’appresso me la rena trita, è Tegghiaio Aldobrandi, la cui voce nel mondo sù dovria esser gradita.

E io, che posto son con loro in croce, Iacopo Rusticucci fui, e certo la �era moglie più ch’altro mi nuoce.”

S’i’ fossi stato dal foco coperto,   → gittato mi sarei tra lor di sotto, e credo che ’l dottor l’avria so�erto;

ma perch’ io mi sarei brusciato e cotto, vinse paura la mia buona voglia che di loro abbracciar mi facea ghiotto.

Poi cominciai: “Non dispetto, ma doglia la vostra condizion dentro mi �sse,

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tanta che tardi tutta si dispoglia,

tosto che questo mio segnor mi disse parole per le quali i’ mi pensai che qual voi siete, tal gente venisse.

Di vostra terra sono, e sempre mai   → l’ovra di voi e li onorati nomi con a�ezion ritrassi e ascoltai.

Lascio lo fele e vo per dolci pomi promessi a me per lo verace duca; ma ’n�no al centro pria convien ch’i’ tomi.”

“Se lungamente l’anima conduca   → le membra tue,” rispuose quelli ancora, “e se la fama tua dopo te luca,

cortesia e valor dì se dimora ne la nostra città sì come suole, o se del tutto se n’è gita fora;

ché Guiglielmo Borsiere, il qual si duole con noi per poco e va là coi compagni, assai ne cruccia con le sue parole.”

“La gente nuova e i sùbiti guadagni   → orgoglio e dismisura han generata, Fiorenza, in te, sì che tu già ten piagni.”

Così gridai con la faccia levata;   → e i tre, che ciò inteser per risposta, guardar l’un l’altro com’ al ver si guata.

“Se l’altre volte sì poco ti costa,” rispuoser tutti, “il satisfare altrui, felice te se sì parli a tua posta!

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Però, se campi d’esti luoghi bui   → e torni a riveder le belle stelle, quando ti gioverà dicere ‘I’ fui,’

fa che di noi a la gente favelle.” Indi rupper la rota, e a fuggirsi ali sembiar le gambe loro isnelle.

Un amen non saria possuto dirsi   → tosto così com’ e’ fuoro spariti; per ch’al maestro parve di partirsi.

Io lo seguiva, e poco eravam iti,   → che ’l suon de l’acqua n’era sì vicino, che per parlar saremmo a pena uditi.

Come quel �ume c’ha proprio cammino   → prima dal Monte Viso ’nver’ levante, da la sinistra costa d’Apennino,

che si chiama Acquacheta suso, avante che si divalli giù nel basso letto, e a Forlì di quel nome è vacante,

rimbomba là sovra San Benedetto de l’Alpe per cadere ad una scesa ove dovea per mille esser recetto;

così, giù d’una ripa discoscesa, trovammo risonar quell’ acqua tinta, sì che ’n poc’ ora avria l’orecchia o�esa.

Io avea una corda intorno cinta,   → e con essa pensai alcuna volta prender la lonza a la pelle dipinta.

Poscia ch’io l’ebbi tutta da me sciolta,   →

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sì come ’l duca m’avea comandato, porsila a lui aggroppata e ravvolta.

Ond’ ei si volse inver’ lo destro lato, e alquanto di lunge da la sponda la gittò giuso in quell’ alto burrato.

“E’ pur convien che novità risponda,”   → dicea fra me medesmo, “al novo cenno che ’l maestro con l’occhio sì seconda.”

Ahi quanto cauti li uomini esser dienno presso a color che non veggion pur l’ovra, ma per entro i pensier miran col senno!

El disse a me: “Tosto verrà di sovra ciò ch’io attendo e che il tuo pensier sogna; tosto convien ch’al tuo viso si scovra.”

Sempre a quel ver c’ha faccia di menzogna   → de’ l’uom chiuder le labbra �n ch’el puote, però che sanza colpa fa vergogna;

ma qui tacer nol posso; e per le note di questa comedìa, lettor, ti giuro, s’elle non sien di lunga grazia vòte,

ch’i’ vidi per quell’ aere grosso e scuro venir notando una �gura in suso, maravigliosa ad ogne cor sicuro,

sì come torna colui che va giuso   → talora a solver l’àncora ch’aggrappa o scoglio o altro che nel mare è chiuso, che ’n sù si stende e da piè si rattrappa.

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INFERNO XVII

“Ecco la �era con la coda aguzza,   → che passa i monti e rompe i muri e l’armi! Ecco colei che tutto ’l mondo appuzza!”

Sì cominciò lo mio duca a parlarmi; e accennolle che venisse a proda, vicino al �n d’i passeggiati marmi.

E quella sozza imagine di froda sen venne, e arrivò la testa e ’l busto, ma ’n su la riva non trasse la coda.

La faccia sua era faccia d’uom giusto,   → tanto benigna avea di fuor la pelle, e d’un serpente tutto l’altro fusto;

due branche avea pilose insin l’ascelle; lo dosso e ’l petto e ambedue le coste   → dipinti avea di nodi e di rotelle.

Con più color, sommesse e sovraposte non fer mai drappi Tartari né Turchi, né fuor tai tele per Aragne imposte.

Come talvolta stanno a riva i burchi,   → che parte sono in acqua e parte in terra, e come là tra li Tedeschi lurchi

lo bivero s’assetta a far sua guerra, così la �era pessima si stava su l’orlo ch’è di pietra e ’l sabbion serra.

Nel vano tutta sua coda guizzava,

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torcendo in sù la venenosa forca ch’a guisa di scorpion la punta armava.

Lo duca disse: “Or convien che si torca   → la nostra via un poco insino a quella bestia malvagia che colà si corca.”

Però scendemmo a la destra mammella, e diece passi femmo in su lo stremo, per ben cessar la rena e la �ammella.

E quando noi a lei venuti semo, poco più oltre veggio in su la rena gente seder propinqua al loco scemo.

Quivi ’l maestro “Acciò che tutta piena   → esperïenza d’esto giron porti,” mi disse, “va, e vedi la lor mena.

Li tuoi ragionamenti sian là corti; mentre che torni, parlerò con questa, che ne conceda i suoi omeri forti.”

Così ancor su per la strema testa di quel settimo cerchio tutto solo andai, dove sedea la gente mesta.   →

Per li occhi fora scoppiava lor duolo; di qua, di là soccorrien con le mani quando a’ vapori, e quando al caldo suolo:

non altrimenti fan di state i cani or col ce�o or col piè, quando son morsi o da pulci o da mosche o da tafani.

Poi che nel viso a certi li occhi porsi, ne’ quali ’l doloroso foco casca,

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non ne conobbi alcun; ma io m’accorsi

che dal collo a ciascun pendea una tasca   → ch’avea certo colore e certo segno, e quindi par che ’l loro occhio si pasca.

E com’ io riguardando tra lor vegno, in una borsa gialla vidi azzurro   → che d’un leone avea faccia e contegno.

Poi, procedendo di mio sguardo il curro, vidine un’altra come sangue rossa,   → mostrando un’oca bianca più che burro.

E un che d’una scrofa azzurra e grossa   → segnato avea lo suo sacchetto bianco, mi disse: “Che fai tu in questa fossa?

Or te ne va; e perché se’ vivo anco,   → sappi che ’l mio vicin Vitalïano sederà qui dal mio sinistro �anco.

Con questi Fiorentin son padoano: spesse fïate mi ’ntronan li orecchi gridando: ‘Vegna ’l cavalier sovrano,   →

che recherà la tasca con tre becchi!’ ” Qui distorse la bocca e di fuor trasse   → la lingua, come bue che ’l naso lecchi.

E io, temendo no’l più star crucciasse lui che di poco star m’avea ’mmonito, torna’mi in dietro da l’anime lasse.

Trova’ il duca mio ch’era salito già su la groppa del �ero animale, e disse a me: “Or sie forte e ardito.

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Omai si scende per sì fatte scale;   → monta dinanzi, ch’i’ voglio esser mezzo, sì che la coda non possa far male.”

Qual è colui che sì presso ha ’l riprezzo de la quartana, c’ha già l’unghie smorte, e triema tutto pur guardando ’l rezzo,

tal divenn’ io a le parole porte; ma vergogna mi fé le sue minacce, che innanzi a buon segnor fa servo forte.

I’ m’assettai in su quelle spallacce; sì volli dir, ma la voce non venne com’ io credetti: “Fa che tu m’abbracce.”

Ma esso, ch’altra volta mi sovvenne ad altro forse, tosto ch’i’ montai con le braccia m’avvinse e mi sostenne;

e disse: “Gerïon, moviti omai:   → le rote larghe, e lo scender sia poco; pensa la nova soma che tu hai.”

Come la navicella esce di loco in dietro in dietro, sì quindi si tolse; e poi ch’al tutto si sentì a gioco,

là ’v’ era ’l petto, la coda rivolse, e quella tesa, come anguilla, mosse, e con le branche l’aere a sé raccolse.

Maggior paura non credo che fosse   → quando Fetonte abbandonò li freni, per che ’l ciel, come pare ancor, si cosse;

né quando Icaro misero le reni   →

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sentì spennar per la scaldata cera, gridando il padre a lui “Mala via tieni!”

che fu la mia, quando vidi ch’i’ era ne l’aere d’ogne parte, e vidi spenta ogne veduta fuor che de la fera.

Ella sen va notando lenta lenta;   → rota e discende, ma non me n’accorgo se non che al viso e di sotto mi venta.

Io sentia già da la man destra il gorgo far sotto noi un orribile scroscio, per che con li occhi ’n giù la testa sporgo.

Allor fu’ io più timido a lo stoscio, però ch’i’ vidi fuochi e senti’ pianti; ond’ io tremando tutto mi raccoscio.

E vidi poi, ché nol vedea davanti, lo scendere e ’l girar per li gran mali che s’appressavan da diversi canti.

Come ’l falcon ch’è stato assai su l’ali,   → che sanza veder logoro o uccello fa dire al falconiere “Omè, tu cali!”

discende lasso onde si move isnello, per cento rote, e da lunge si pone dal suo maestro, disdegnoso e fello;

così ne puose al fondo Gerïone al piè al piè de la stagliata rocca, e, discarcate le nostre persone, si dileguò come da corda cocca.

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INFERNO XVIII

Luogo è in inferno detto Malebolge,   → tutto di pietra di color ferrigno, come la cerchia che dintorno il volge.

Nel dritto mezzo del campo maligno vaneggia un pozzo assai largo e profondo, di cui suo loco dicerò l’ordigno.

Quel cinghio che rimane adunque è tondo tra ’l pozzo e ’l piè de l’alta ripa dura, e ha distinto in dieci valli il fondo.

Quale, dove per guardia de le mura più e più fossi cingon li castelli, la parte dove son rende �gura,

tale imagine quivi facean quelli; e come a tai fortezze da’ lor sogli a la ripa di fuor son ponticelli,

così da imo de la roccia scogli movien che ricidien li argini e ’ fossi in�no al pozzo che i tronca e raccogli.

In questo luogo, de la schiena scossi   → di Gerïon, trovammoci; e ’l poeta tenne a sinistra, e io dietro mi mossi.

A la man destra vidi nova pieta,   → novo tormento e novi frustatori, di che la prima bolgia era repleta.

Nel fondo erano ignudi i peccatori;

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dal mezzo in qua ci venien verso ’l volto, di là con noi, ma con passi maggiori,

come i Roman per l’essercito molto,   → l’anno del giubileo, su per lo ponte hanno a passar la gente modo colto,

che da l’un lato tutti hanno la fronte verso ’l castello e vanno a Santo Pietro, da l’altra sponda vanno verso ’l monte.

Di qua, di là, su per lo sasso tetro vidi demon cornuti con gran ferze,   → che li battien crudelmente di retro.

Ahi come facean lor levar le berze a le prime percosse! già nessuno le seconde aspettava né le terze.

Mentr’ io andava, li occhi miei in uno furo scontrati; e io sì tosto dissi: “Già di veder costui non son digiuno.”

Per ch’ïo a �gurarlo i piedi a�ssi; e ’l dolce duca meco si ristette, e assentio ch’alquanto in dietro gissi.

E quel frustato celar si credette bassando ’l viso; ma poco li valse, ch’io dissi: “O tu che l’occhio a terra gette,

se le fazion che porti non son false, Venedico se’ tu Caccianemico.   → Ma che ti mena a sì pungenti salse?”

Ed elli a me: “Mal volontier lo dico; ma sforzami la tua chiara favella,

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che mi fa sovvenir del mondo antico.

I’ fui colui che la Ghisolabella condussi a far la voglia del marchese, come che suoni la sconcia novella.

E non pur io qui piango bolognese;   → anzi n’è questo loco tanto pieno, che tante lingue non son ora apprese

a dicer ‘sipa’ tra Sàvena e Reno; e se di ciò vuoi fede o testimonio, rècati a mente il nostro avaro seno.”

Così parlando il percosse un demonio de la sua scurïada, e disse: “Via, ru�an! qui non son femmine da conio.”   →

I’ mi raggiunsi con la scorta mia; poscia con pochi passi divenimmo là ’v’ uno scoglio de la ripa uscia.

Assai leggeramente quel salimmo; e vòlti a destra su per la sua scheggia, da quelle cerchie etterne ci partimmo.   →

Quando noi fummo là dov’ el vaneggia   → di sotto per dar passo a li sferzati, lo duca disse: “Attienti, e fa che feggia

lo viso in te di quest’ altri mal nati, ai quali ancor non vedesti la faccia però che son con noi insieme andati.”

Del vecchio ponte guardavam la traccia che venìa verso noi da l’altra banda, e che la ferza similmente scaccia.

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E ’l buon maestro, sanza mia dimanda, mi disse: “Guarda quel grande che vene,   → e per dolor non par lagrime spanda:

quanto aspetto reale ancor ritene! Quelli è Iasón, che per cuore e per senno   → li Colchi del monton privati féne.

Ello passò per l’isola di Lenno poi che l’ardite femmine spietate tutti li maschi loro a morte dienno.

Ivi con segni e con parole ornate Isi�le ingannò, la giovinetta che prima avea tutte l’altre ingannate.

Lasciolla quivi, gravida, soletta; tal colpa a tal martiro lui condanna; e anche di Medea si fa vendetta.

Con lui sen va chi da tal parte inganna; e questo basti de la prima valle sapere e di color che ’n sé assanna.”

Già eravam là ’ve lo stretto calle   → con l’argine secondo s’incrocicchia, e fa di quello ad un altr’ arco spalle.

Quindi sentimmo gente che si nicchia ne l’altra bolgia e che col muso scu�a, e sé medesma con le palme picchia.

Le ripe eran grommate d’una mu�a, per l’alito di giù che vi s’appasta, che con li occhi e col naso facea zu�a.

Lo fondo è cupo sì, che non ci basta

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loco a veder sanza montare al dosso de l’arco, ove lo scoglio più sovrasta.

Quivi venimmo; e quindi giù nel fosso vidi gente attu�ata in uno sterco che da li uman privadi parea mosso.

E mentre ch’io là giù con l’occhio cerco, vidi un col capo sì di merda lordo, che non parëa s’era laico o cherco.

Quei mi sgridò: “Perché se’ tu sì gordo di riguardar più me che li altri brutti?” E io a lui: “Perché, se ben ricordo,

già t’ho veduto coi capelli asciutti, e se’ Alessio Interminei da Lucca:   → però t’adocchio più che li altri tutti.”

Ed elli allor, battendosi la zucca: “Qua giù m’hanno sommerso le lusinghe ond’ io non ebbi mai la lingua stucca.”

Appresso ciò lo duca “Fa che pinghe,” mi disse, “il viso un poco più avante, sì che la faccia ben con l’occhio attinghe

di quella sozza e scapigliata fante che là si gra�a con l’unghie merdose, e or s’accoscia e ora è in piedi stante.

Taïde è, la puttana che rispuose   → al drudo suo quando disse ‘Ho io grazie grandi apo te?’: ‘Anzi maravigliose!’ E quinci sian le nostre viste sazie.”

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INFERNO XIX

O Simon mago, o miseri seguaci   → che le cose di Dio, che di bontate deon essere spose, e voi rapaci

per oro e per argento avolterate, or convien che per voi suoni la tromba, però che ne la terza bolgia state.

Già eravamo, a la seguente tomba, montati de lo scoglio in quella parte ch’a punto sovra mezzo ’l fosso piomba.

O somma sapïenza, quanta è l’arte che mostri in cielo, in terra e nel mal mondo, e quanto giusto tua virtù comparte!

Io vidi per le coste e per lo fondo piena la pietra livida di fóri, d’un largo tutti e ciascun era tondo.

Non mi parean men ampi né maggiori   → che que’ che son nel mio bel San Giovanni, fatti per loco d’i battezzatori;

l’un de li quali, ancor non è molt’ anni, rupp’ io per un che dentro v’annegava: e questo sia suggel ch’ogn’ omo sganni.

Fuor de la bocca a ciascun soperchiava   → d’un peccator li piedi e de le gambe in�no al grosso, e l’altro dentro stava.

Le piante erano a tutti accese intrambe;   →

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per che sì forte guizzavan le giunte, che spezzate averien ritorte e strambe.

Qual suole il �ammeggiar de le cose unte   → muoversi pur su per la strema buccia, tal era lì dai calcagni a le punte.

“Chi è colui, maestro, che si cruccia guizzando più che li altri suoi consorti,” diss’ io, “e cui più roggia �amma succia?”

Ed elli a me: “Se tu vuo’ ch’i’ ti porti là giù per quella ripa che più giace,   → da lui saprai di sé e de’ suoi torti.”

E io: “Tanto m’è bel, quanto a te piace:   → tu se’ segnore, e sai ch’i’ non mi parto dal tuo volere, e sai quel che si tace.”

Allor venimmo in su l’argine quarto; volgemmo e discendemmo a mano stanca là giù nel fondo foracchiato e arto.

Lo buon maestro ancor de la sua anca non mi dipuose, sì mi giunse al rotto di quel che si piangeva con la zanca.

“O qual che se’ che ’l di sù tien di sotto,   → anima trista come pal commessa,” comincia’ io a dir, “se puoi, fa motto.”

Io stava come ’l frate che confessa   → lo per�do assessin, che, poi ch’è �tto, richiama lui per che la morte cessa.

Ed el gridò: “Se’ tu già costì ritto,   → se’ tu già costì ritto, Bonifazio?

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Di parecchi anni mi mentì lo scritto.   →

Se’ tu sì tosto di quell’ aver sazio per lo qual non temesti tòrre a ’nganno la bella donna, e poi di farne strazio?”   →

Tal mi fec’ io, quai son color che stanno, per non intender ciò ch’è lor risposto, quasi scornati, e risponder non sanno.

Allor Virgilio disse: “Dilli tosto: ‘Non son colui, non son colui che credi’ ” e io rispuosi come a me fu imposto.

Per che lo spirto tutti storse i piedi; poi, sospirando e con voce di pianto, mi disse: “Dunque che a me richiedi?

Se di saper ch’i’ sia ti cal cotanto, che tu abbi però la ripa corsa, sappi ch’i’ fui vestito del gran manto;   →

e veramente fui �gliuol de l’orsa, cupido sì per avanzar li orsatti, che sù l’avere e qui me misi in borsa.

Di sotto al capo mio son li altri tratti che precedetter me simoneggiando, per le fessure de la pietra piatti.

Là giù cascherò io altresì quando verrà colui ch’i’ credea che tu fossi, allor ch’i’ feci ’l sùbito dimando.

Ma più è ’l tempo già che i piè mi cossi   → e ch’i’ son stato così sottosopra, ch’el non starà piantato coi piè rossi:

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ché dopo lui verrà di più laida opra, di ver’ ponente, un pastor sanza legge, tal che convien che lui e me ricuopra.

Nuovo Iasón sarà, di cui si legge ne’ Maccabei; e come a quel fu molle suo re, così �a lui chi Francia regge.”

Io non so s’i’ mi fui qui troppo folle,   → ch’i’ pur rispuosi lui a questo metro: “Deh, or mi dì: quanto tesoro volle   →

Nostro Segnore in prima da san Pietro ch’ei ponesse le chiavi in sua balìa? Certo non chiese se non ‘Viemmi retro.’

Né Pier né li altri tolsero a Matia oro od argento, quando fu sortito al loco che perdé l’anima ria.

Però ti sta, ché tu se’ ben punito; e guarda ben la mal tolta moneta ch’esser ti fece contra Carlo ardito.

E se non fosse ch’ancor lo mi vieta la reverenza de le somme chiavi che tu tenesti ne la vita lieta,

io userei parole ancor più gravi; ché la vostra avarizia il mondo attrista, calcando i buoni e sollevando i pravi.

Di voi pastor s’accorse il Vangelista, quando colei che siede sopra l’acque puttaneggiar coi regi a lui fu vista;

quella che con le sette teste nacque,

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e da le diece corna ebbe argomento, �n che virtute al suo marito piacque.

Fatto v’avete dio d’oro e d’argento; e che altro è da voi a l’idolatre, se non ch’elli uno, e voi ne orate cento?

Ahi, Costantin, di quanto mal fu matre,   → non la tua conversion, ma quella dote che da te prese il primo ricco patre!”

E mentr’ io li cantava cotai note, o ira o coscïenza che ’l mordesse, forte spingava con ambo le piote.

I’ credo ben ch’al mio duca piacesse, con sì contenta labbia sempre attese lo suon de le parole vere espresse.

Però con ambo le braccia mi prese;   → e poi che tutto su mi s’ebbe al petto, rimontò per la via onde discese.

Né si stancò d’avermi a sé distretto, sì men portò sovra ’l colmo de l’arco   → che dal quarto al quinto argine è tragetto.

Quivi soavemente spuose il carco, soave per lo scoglio sconcio ed erto che sarebbe a le capre duro varco. Indi un altro vallon mi fu scoperto.

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INFERNO XX

Di nova pena mi conven far versi   → e dar matera al ventesimo canto de la prima canzon, ch’è d’i sommersi.

Io era già disposto tutto quanto   → a riguardar ne lo scoperto fondo, che si bagnava d’angoscioso pianto;

e vidi gente per lo vallon tondo venir, tacendo e lagrimando, al passo che fanno le letane in questo mondo.

Come ’l viso mi scese in lor più basso,   → mirabilmente apparve esser travolto ciascun tra ’l mento e ’l principio del casso,

ché da le reni era tornato ’l volto,   → e in dietro venir li convenia, perché ’l veder dinanzi era lor tolto.

Forse per forza già di parlasia si travolse così alcun del tutto; ma io nol vidi, né credo che sia.

Se Dio ti lasci, lettor, prender frutto   → di tua lezione, or pensa per te stesso com’ io potea tener lo viso asciutto,

quando la nostra imagine di presso vidi sì torta, che ’l pianto de li occhi le natiche bagnava per lo fesso.

Certo io piangea, poggiato a un de’ rocchi   → del duro scoglio, sì che la mia scorta

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mi disse: “Ancor se’ tu de li altri sciocchi?

Qui vive la pietà quand’ è ben morta;   → chi è più scellerato che colui che al giudicio divin passion comporta?

Drizza la testa, drizza, e vedi a cui   → s’aperse a li occhi d’i Teban la terra; per ch’ei gridavan tutti: ‘Dove rui,

Anfïarao? perché lasci la guerra?’ E non restò di ruinare a valle �no a Minòs che ciascheduno a�erra.

Mira c’ha fatto petto de le spalle; perché volse veder troppo davante, di retro guarda e fa retroso calle.

Vedi Tiresia, che mutò sembiante   → quando di maschio femmina divenne, cangiandosi le membra tutte quante;

e prima, poi, ribatter li convenne li duo serpenti avvolti, con la verga, che rïavesse le maschili penne.

Aronta è quel ch’al ventre li s’atterga,   → che ne’ monti di Luni, dove ronca lo Carrarese che di sotto alberga,

ebbe tra ’ bianchi marmi la spelonca per sua dimora; onde a guardar le stelle e ’l mar non li era la veduta tronca.

E quella che ricuopre le mammelle,   → che tu non vedi, con le trecce sciolte, e ha di là ogne pilosa pelle,

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Manto fu, che cercò per terre molte; poscia si puose là dove nacqu’ io; onde un poco mi piace che m’ascolte.   →

Poscia che ’l padre suo di vita uscìo e venne serva la città di Baco, questa gran tempo per lo mondo gio.

Suso in Italia bella giace un laco,   → a piè de l’Alpe che serra Lamagna sovra Tiralli, c’ha nome Benaco.

Per mille fonti, credo, e più si bagna   → tra Garda e Val Camonica e Pennino de l’acqua che nel detto laco stagna.

Loco è nel mezzo là dove ’l trentino pastore e quel di Brescia e ’l veronese segnar poria, s’e’ fesse quel cammino.

Siede Peschiera, bello e forte arnese   → da fronteggiar Bresciani e Bergamaschi, ove la riva ’ntorno più discese.

Ivi convien che tutto quanto caschi   → ciò che ’n grembo a Benaco star non può, e fassi �ume giù per verdi paschi.

Tosto che l’acqua a correr mette co, non più Benaco, ma Mencio si chiama �no a Govèrnol, dove cade in Po.

Non molto ha corso, ch’el trova una lama,   → ne la qual si distende e la ’mpaluda; e suol di state talor esser grama.

Quindi passando la vergine cruda

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vide terra, nel mezzo del pantano, sanza coltura e d’abitanti nuda.

Lì, per fuggire ogne consorzio umano,   → ristette con suoi servi a far sue arti, e visse, e vi lasciò suo corpo vano.

Li uomini poi che ’ntorno erano sparti s’accolsero a quel loco, ch’era forte per lo pantan ch’avea da tutte parti.

Fer la città sovra quell’ ossa morte; e per colei che ’l loco prima elesse, Mantüa l’appellar sanz’ altra sorte.

Già fuor le genti sue dentro più spesse,   → prima che la mattia da Casalodi da Pinamonte inganno ricevesse.

Però t’assenno che, se tu mai odi   → originar la mia terra altrimenti, la verità nulla menzogna frodi.”

E io: “Maestro, i tuoi ragionamenti mi son sì certi e prendon sì mia fede, che li altri mi sarien carboni spenti.

Ma dimmi, de la gente che procede, se tu ne vedi alcun degno di nota; ché solo a ciò la mia mente ri�ede.”

Allor mi disse: “Quel che da la gota   → porge la barba in su le spalle brune, fu—quando Grecia fu di maschi vòta,

sì ch’a pena rimaser per le cune— augure, e diede ’l punto con Calcanta

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in Aulide a tagliar la prima fune.

Euripilo ebbe nome, e così ’l canta l’alta mia tragedìa in alcun loco: ben lo sai tu che la sai tutta quanta.

Quell’ altro che ne’ �anchi è così poco,   → Michele Scotto fu, che veramente de le magiche frode seppe ’l gioco.

Vedi Guido Bonatti; vedi Asdente,   →   → ch’avere inteso al cuoio e a lo spago ora vorrebbe, ma tardi si pente.

Vedi le triste che lasciaron l’ago,   → la spuola e ’l fuso, e fecersi ’ndivine; fecer malie con erbe e con imago.

Ma vienne omai, ché già tiene ’l con�ne   → d’amendue li emisperi e tocca l’onda sotto Sobilia Caino e le spine;

e già iernotte fu la luna tonda:   → ben ten de’ ricordar, ché non ti nocque alcuna volta per la selva fonda.” Sì mi parlava, e andavamo introcque.   →

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INFERNO XXI

Così di ponte in ponte, altro parlando   → che la mia comedìa cantar non cura, venimmo; e tenavamo ’l colmo, quando

restammo per veder l’altra fessura di Malebolge e li altri pianti vani; e vidila mirabilmente oscura.

Quale ne l’arzanà de’ Viniziani   → bolle l’inverno la tenace pece a rimpalmare i legni lor non sani,

ché navicar non ponno—in quella vece chi fa suo legno novo e chi ristoppa le coste a quel che più vïaggi fece;

chi ribatte da proda e chi da poppa; altri fa remi e altri volge sarte; chi terzeruolo e artimon rintoppa—:

tal, non per foco ma per divin’ arte, bollia là giuso una pegola spessa, che ’nviscava la ripa d’ogne parte.

I’ vedea lei, ma non vedëa in essa mai che le bolle che ’l bollor levava, e gon�ar tutta, e riseder compressa.

Mentr’ io là giù �samente mirava, lo duca mio, dicendo “Guarda, guarda!” mi trasse a sé del loco dov’ io stava.

Allor mi volsi come l’uom cui tarda

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di veder quel che li convien fuggire e cui paura sùbita sgagliarda,

che, per veder, non indugia ’l partire: e vidi dietro a noi un diavol nero   → correndo su per lo scoglio venire.

Ahi quant’ elli era ne l’aspetto fero! e quanto mi parea ne l’atto acerbo, con l’ali aperte e sovra i piè leggero!

L’omero suo, ch’era aguto e superbo,   → carcava un peccator con ambo l’anche, e quei tenea de’ piè ghermito ’l nerbo.

Del nostro ponte disse: “O Malebranche,   → ecco un de li anzïan di Santa Zita!   → Mettetel sotto, ch’i’ torno per anche   →

a quella terra, che n’è ben fornita: ogn’ uom v’è barattier, fuor che Bonturo;   → del no, per li denar, vi si fa ita.”

Là giù ’l buttò, e per lo scoglio duro si volse; e mai non fu mastino sciolto con tanta fretta a seguitar lo furo.

Quel s’attu�ò, e tornò sù convolto;   → ma i demon che del ponte avean coperchio, gridar: “Qui non ha loco il Santo Volto!

qui si nuota altrimenti che nel Serchio!   → Però, se tu non vuo’ di nostri gra�, non far sopra la pegola soverchio.”

Poi l’addentar con più di cento ra�, disser: “Coverto convien che qui balli,

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sì che, se puoi, nascosamente acca�.”

Non altrimenti i cuoci a’ lor vassalli fanno attu�are in mezzo la caldaia la carne con li uncin, perché non galli.

Lo buon maestro “Acciò che non si paia   → che tu ci sia,” mi disse, “giù t’acquatta dopo uno scheggio, ch’alcun schermo t’aia;

e per nulla o�ension che mi sia fatta, non temer tu, ch’i’ ho le cose conte, per ch’altra volta fui a tal baratta.”   →

Poscia passò di là dal co del ponte; e com’ el giunse in su la ripa sesta, mestier li fu d’aver sicura fronte.

Con quel furore e con quella tempesta   → ch’escono i cani a dosso al poverello che di sùbito chiede ove s’arresta,

usciron quei di sotto al ponticello, e volser contra lui tutt’ i runcigli; ma el gridò: “Nessun di voi sia fello!

Innanzi che l’uncin vostro mi pigli, traggasi avante l’un di voi che m’oda, e poi d’arruncigliarmi si consigli.”

Tutti gridaron: “Vada Malacoda!”   → per ch’un si mosse—e li altri stetter fermi— e venne a lui dicendo: “Che li approda?”

“Credi tu, Malacoda, qui vedermi   → esser venuto,” disse ’l mio maestro, “sicuro già da tutti vostri schermi,

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sanza voler divino e fato destro? Lascian’ andar, ché nel cielo è voluto ch’i’ mostri altrui questo cammin silvestro.”

Allor li fu l’orgoglio sì caduto,   → ch’e’ si lasciò cascar l’uncino a’ piedi, e disse a li altri: “Omai non sia feruto.”

E ’l duca mio a me: “O tu che siedi   → tra li scheggion del ponte quatto quatto, sicuramente omai a me ti riedi.”

Per ch’io mi mossi e a lui venni ratto; e i diavoli si fecer tutti avanti, sì ch’io temetti ch’ei tenesser patto;

così vid’ ïo già temer li fanti ch’uscivan patteggiati di Caprona,   → veggendo sé tra nemici cotanti.

I’ m’accostai con tutta la persona lungo ’l mio duca, e non torceva li occhi da la sembianza lor ch’era non buona.

Ei chinavan li ra� e “Vuo’ che ’l tocchi,”   → diceva l’un con l’altro, “in sul groppone?” E rispondien: “Si, fa che gliel’ accocchi.”

Ma quel demonio che tenea sermone col duca mio, si volse tutto presto e disse: “Posa, posa, Scarmiglione!”

Poi disse a noi: “Più oltre andar per questo   → iscoglio non si può, però che giace tutto spezzato al fondo l’arco sesto.

E se l’andare avante pur vi piace,

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andatevene su per questa grotta; presso è un altro scoglio che via face.

Ier, più oltre cinqu’ ore che quest’ otta,   → mille dugento con sessanta sei anni compié che qui la via fu rotta.

Io mando verso là di questi miei   → a riguardar s’alcun se ne sciorina; gite con lor, che non saranno rei.”

“Tra’ti avante, Alichino, e Calcabrina,”   → cominciò elli a dire, “e tu, Cagnazzo; e Barbariccia guidi la decina.

Libicocco vegn’ oltre e Draghignazzo, Cirïatto sannuto e Gra�acane e Farfarello e Rubicante pazzo.

Cercate ’ntorno le boglienti pane; costor sian salvi in�no a l’altro scheggio   → che tutto intero va sovra le tane.”

“Omè, maestro, che è quel ch’i’ veggio?”   → diss’ io, “deh, sanza scorta andianci soli, se tu sa’ ir; ch’i’ per me non la cheggio.

Se tu se’ sì accorto come suoli, non vedi tu ch’e’ digrignan li denti e con le ciglia ne minaccian duoli?”

Ed elli a me: “Non vo’ che tu paventi;   → lasciali digrignar pur a lor senno, ch’e’ fanno ciò per li lessi dolenti.”

Per l’argine sinistro volta dienno;   → ma prima avea ciascun la lingua stretta

139 coi denti, verso lor duca, per cenno; ed elli avea del cul fatto trombetta.

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INFERNO XXII

Io vidi già cavalier muover campo,   → e cominciare stormo e far lor mostra, e talvolta partir per loro scampo;

corridor vidi per la terra vostra, o Aretini, e vidi gir gualdane, fedir torneamenti e correr giostra;

quando con trombe, e quando con campane, con tamburi e con cenni di castella, e con cose nostrali e con istrane;

né già con sì diversa cennamella cavalier vidi muover né pedoni, né nave a segno di terra o di stella.

Noi andavam con li diece demoni.   → Ahi �era compagnia! ma ne la chiesa coi santi, e in taverna coi ghiottoni.

Pur a la pegola era la mia ’ntesa, per veder de la bolgia ogne contegno e de la gente ch’entro v’era incesa.

Come i dal�ni, quando fanno segno   → a’ marinar con l’arco de la schiena che s’argomentin di campar lor legno,

talor così, ad alleggiar la pena, mostrav’ alcun de’ peccatori ’l dosso e nascondea in men che non balena.

E come a l’orlo de l’acqua d’un fosso

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stanno i ranocchi pur col muso fuori, sì che celano i piedi e l’altro grosso,

sì stavan d’ogne parte i peccatori; ma come s’appressava Barbariccia, così si ritraén sotto i bollori.

I’ vidi, e anco il cor me n’accapriccia, uno aspettar così, com’ elli ’ncontra ch’una rana rimane e l’altra spiccia;

e Gra�acan, che li era più di contra, li arruncigliò le ’mpegolate chiome e trassel sù, che mi parve una lontra.

I’ sapea già di tutti quanti ’l nome,   → sì li notai quando fuorono eletti, e poi ch’e’ si chiamaro, attesi come.

“O Rubicante, fa che tu li metti li unghioni a dosso, sì che tu lo scuoi!” gridavan tutti insieme i maladetti.

E io: “Maestro mio, fa, se tu puoi, che tu sappi chi è lo sciagurato venuto a man de li avversari suoi.”

Lo duca mio li s’accostò allato; domandollo ond’ ei fosse, e quei rispuose: “I’ fui del regno di Navarra nato.   →

Mia madre a servo d’un segnor mi puose, che m’avea generato d’un ribaldo, distruggitor di sé e di sue cose.

Poi fui famiglia del buon re Tebaldo; quivi mi misi a far baratteria,

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di ch’io rendo ragione in questo caldo.”

E Cirïatto, a cui di bocca uscia d’ogne parte una sanna come a porco, li fé sentir come l’una sdruscia.

Tra male gatte era venuto ’l sorco; ma Barbariccia il chiuse con le braccia   → e disse: “State in là, mentr’ io lo ’nforco.”

E al maestro mio volse la faccia; “Domanda,” disse, “ancor, se più disii saper da lui, prima ch’altri ’l disfaccia.”

Lo duca dunque: “Or dì: de li altri rii   → conosci tu alcun che sia latino sotto la pece?” E quelli: “I’ mi partii,

poco è, da un che fu di là vicino.   → Così foss’ io ancor con lui coperto, ch’i’ non temerei unghia né uncino!”

E Libicocco “Troppo avem so�erto,”   → disse; e preseli ’l braccio col runciglio, sì che, stracciando, ne portò un lacerto.

Draghignazzo anco i volle dar di piglio giuso a le gambe; onde ’l decurio loro si volse intorno intorno con mal piglio.

Quand’ elli un poco rappaciati fuoro, a lui, ch’ancor mirava sua ferita, domandò ’l duca mio sanza dimoro:

“Chi fu colui da cui mala partita di’ che facesti per venire a proda?” Ed ei rispuose: “Fu frate Gomita,   →

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quel di Gallura, vasel d’ogne froda, ch’ebbe i nemici di suo donno in mano, e fé sì lor, che ciascun se ne loda.

Danar si tolse e lasciolli di piano, sì com’ e’ dice; e ne li altri o�ci anche barattier fu non picciol, ma sovrano.

Usa con esso donno Michel Zanche   → di Logodoro; e a dir di Sardigna le lingue lor non si sentono stanche.

Omè, vedete l’altro che digrigna;   → i’ direi anche, ma i’ temo ch’ello non s’apparecchi a grattarmi la tigna.”

E ’l gran proposto, vòlto a Farfarello che stralunava li occhi per fedire, disse: “Fatti ’n costà, malvagio uccello!”

“Se voi volete vedere o udire,”   → ricominciò lo spaürato appresso, “Toschi o Lombardi, io ne farò venire;

ma stieno i Malebranche un poco in cesso,   → sì ch’ei non teman de le lor vendette; e io, seggendo in questo loco stesso,

per un ch’io son, ne farò venir sette quand’ io su�olerò, com’ è nostro uso di fare allor che fori alcun si mette.”

Cagnazzo a cotal motto levò ’l muso, crollando ’l capo, e disse: “Odi malizia ch’elli ha pensata per gittarsi giuso!”

Ond’ ei, ch’avea lacciuoli a gran divizia,

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rispuose: “Malizioso son io troppo, quand’ io procuro a’ mia maggior trestizia.”

Alichin non si tenne e, di rintoppo a li altri, disse a lui: “Se tu ti cali, io non ti verrò dietro di gualoppo,

ma batterò sovra la pece l’ali. Lascisi ’l collo, e sia la ripa scudo, a veder se tu sol più di noi vali.”

O tu che leggi, udirai nuovo ludo: ciascun da l’altra costa li occhi volse, quel prima, ch’a ciò fare era più crudo.

Lo Navarrese ben suo tempo colse; fermò le piante a terra, e in un punto saltò e dal proposto lor si sciolse.

Di che ciascun di colpa fu compunto,   → ma quei più che cagion fu del difetto; però si mosse e gridò: “Tu se’ giunto!”

Ma poco i valse: ché l’ali al sospetto non potero avanzar; quelli andò sotto, e quei drizzò volando suso il petto:

non altrimenti l’anitra di botto, quando ’l falcon s’appressa, giù s’attu�a, ed ei ritorna sù crucciato e rotto.

Irato Calcabrina de la bu�a, volando dietro li tenne, invaghito che quei campasse per aver la zu�a;

e come ’l barattier fu disparito, così volse li artigli al suo compagno,

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e fu con lui sopra ’l fosso ghermito.

Ma l’altro fu bene sparvier grifagno ad artigliar ben lui, e amendue cadder nel mezzo del bogliente stagno.

Lo caldo sghermitor sùbito fue; ma però di levarsi era neente, sì avieno inviscate l’ali sue.

Barbariccia, con li altri suoi dolente,   → quattro ne fé volar da l’altra costa con tutt’ i ra�, e assai prestamente

di qua, di là discesero a la posta; porser li uncini verso li ’mpaniati, ch’eran già cotti dentro da la crosta. E noi lasciammo lor così ’mpacciati.   →

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INFERNO XXIII

Taciti, soli, sanza compagnia   → n’andavam l’un dinanzi e l’altro dopo, come frati minor vanno per via.

Vòlt’ era in su la favola d’Isopo   → lo mio pensier per la presente rissa, dov’ el parlò de la rana e del topo;

ché più non si pareggia “mo” e “issa” che l’un con l’altro fa, se ben s’accoppia principio e �ne con la mente �ssa.

E come l’un pensier de l’altro scoppia, così nacque di quello un altro poi, che la prima paura mi fé doppia.

Io pensava così: “Questi per noi sono scherniti con danno e con be�a sì fatta, ch’ assai credo che lor nòi.

Se l’ira sovra ’l mal voler s’aggue�a, ei ne verranno dietro più crudeli che ’l cane a quella lievre ch’elli acce�a.”

Già mi sentia tutti arricciar li peli   → de la paura e stava in dietro intento, quand’ io dissi: “Maestro, se non celi

te e me tostamente, i’ ho pavento d’i Malebranche. Noi li avem già dietro; io li ’magino sì, che già li sento.”

E quei: “S’i’ fossi di piombato vetro,   →

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l’imagine di fuor tua non trarrei più tosto a me, che quella dentro ’mpetro.

Pur mo venieno i tuo’ pensier tra ’ miei, con simile atto e con simile faccia, sì che d’intrambi un sol consiglio fei.

S’elli è che sì la destra costa giaccia, che noi possiam ne l’altra bolgia scendere, noi fuggirem l’imaginata caccia.”

Già non compié di tal consiglio rendere,   → ch’io li vidi venir con l’ali tese non molto lungi, per volerne prendere.

Lo duca mio di sùbito mi prese,   → come la madre ch’al romore è desta e vede presso a sé le �amme accese,

che prende il �glio e fugge e non s’arresta, avendo più di lui che di sé cura, tanto che solo una camiscia vesta;

e giù dal collo de la ripa dura supin si diede a la pendente roccia, che l’un de’ lati a l’altra bolgia tura.

Non corse mai sì tosto acqua per doccia   → a volger ruota di molin terragno, quand’ ella più verso le pale approccia,

come ’l maestro mio per quel vivagno, portandosene me sovra ’l suo petto, come suo �glio, non come compagno.

A pena fuoro i piè suoi giunti al letto   → del fondo giù, ch’e’ furon in sul colle

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sovresso noi; ma non lì era sospetto:

ché l’alta provedenza che lor volle porre ministri de la fossa quinta, poder di partirs’ indi a tutti tolle.

Là giù trovammo una gente dipinta   → che giva intorno assai con lenti passi, piangendo e nel sembiante stanca e vinta.

Elli avean cappe con cappucci bassi   → dinanzi a li occhi, fatte de la taglia che in Clugnì per li monaci fassi.

Di fuor dorate son, sì ch’elli abbaglia;   → ma dentro tutte piombo, e gravi tanto, che Federigo le mettea di paglia.   →

Oh in etterno faticoso manto! Noi ci volgemmo ancor pur a man manca con loro insieme, intenti al tristo pianto;

ma per lo peso quella gente stanca venìa sì pian, che noi eravam nuovi di compagnia ad ogne mover d’anca.

Per ch’io al duca mio: “Fa che tu trovi alcun ch’al fatto o al nome si conosca, e li occhi, sì andando, intorno movi.”

E un che ’ntese la parola tosca,   → di retro a noi gridò: “Tenete i piedi, voi che correte sì per l’aura fosca!

Forse ch’avrai da me quel che tu chiedi.” Onde ’l duca si volse e disse: “Aspetta, e poi secondo il suo passo procedi.”

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Ristetti, e vidi due mostrar gran fretta de l’animo, col viso, d’esser meco; ma tardavali ’l carco e la via stretta.

Quando fuor giunti, assai con l’occhio bieco mi rimiraron sanza far parola; poi si volsero in sé, e dicean seco:

“Costui par vivo a l’atto de la gola; e s’e’ son morti, per qual privilegio vanno scoperti de la grave stola?”

Poi disser me: “O Tosco, ch’al collegio de l’ipocriti tristi se’ venuto,   → dir chi tu se’ non avere in dispregio.”

E io a loro: “I’ fui nato e cresciuto sovra ’l bel �ume d’Arno a la gran villa, e son col corpo ch’i’ ho sempre avuto.

Ma voi chi siete, a cui tanto distilla quant’ i’ veggio dolor giù per le guance? e che pena è in voi che sì sfavilla?”

E l’un rispuose a me: “Le cappe rance son di piombo sì grosse, che li pesi fan così cigolar le lor bilance.   →

Frati godenti fummo, e bolognesi;   → io Catalano e questi Loderingo   → nomati, e da tua terra insieme presi

come suole esser tolto un uom solingo, per conservar sua pace; e fummo tali, ch’ancor si pare intorno dal Gardingo.”

Io cominciai: “O frati, i vostri mali …”   →

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ma più non dissi, ch’a l’occhio mi corse   → un, cruci�sso in terra con tre pali.

Quando mi vide, tutto si distorse, so�ando ne la barba con sospiri; e ’l frate Catalan, ch’a ciò s’accorse,

mi disse: “Quel con�tto che tu miri, consigliò i Farisei che convenia porre un uom per lo popolo a’ martìri.

Attraversato è, nudo, ne la via,   → come tu vedi, ed è mestier ch’el senta qualunque passa, come pesa, pria.

E a tal modo il socero si stenta   → in questa fossa, e li altri dal concilio che fu per li Giudei mala sementa.”

Allor vid’ io maravigliar Virgilio   → sovra colui ch’era disteso in croce tanto vilmente ne l’etterno essilio.

Poscia drizzò al frate cotal voce: “Non vi dispiaccia, se vi lece, dirci s’a la man destra giace alcuna foce

onde noi amendue possiamo uscirci, sanza costrigner de li angeli neri   → che vegnan d’esto fondo a dipartirci.”

Rispuose adunque: “Più che tu non speri   → s’appressa un sasso che da la gran cerchia si move e varca tutt’ i vallon feri,   

salvo che ’n questo è rotto e nol coperchia; montar potrete su per la ruina,

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che giace in costa e nel fondo soperchia.”

Lo duca stette un poco a testa china; poi disse: “Mal contava la bisogna colui che i peccator di qua uncina.”

E ’l frate: “Io udi’ già dire a Bologna   → del diavol vizi assai, tra ’ quali udi’ ch’elli è bugiardo e padre di menzogna.”

Appresso il duca a gran passi sen gì,   → turbato un poco d’ira nel sembiante; ond’ io da li ’ncarcati mi parti’ dietro a le poste de le care piante.

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INFERNO XXIV

In quella parte del giovanetto anno   → che ’l sole i crin sotto l’Aquario tempra e già le notti al mezzo dì sen vanno,

quando la brina in su la terra assempra l’imagine di sua sorella bianca, ma poco dura a la sua penna tempra,

lo villanello a cui la roba manca, si leva, e guarda, e vede la campagna biancheggiar tutta; ond’ ei si batte l’anca,

ritorna in casa, e qua e là si lagna, come ’l tapin che non sa che si faccia; poi riede, e la speranza ringavagna,

veggendo ’l mondo aver cangiata faccia in poco d’ora, e prende suo vincastro e fuor le pecorelle a pascer caccia.

Così mi fece sbigottir lo mastro quand’ io li vidi sì turbar la fronte, e così tosto al mal giunse lo ’mpiastro;

ché, come noi venimmo al guasto ponte, lo duca a me si volse con quel piglio dolce ch’io vidi prima a piè del monte.

Le braccia aperse, dopo alcun consiglio   → eletto seco riguardando prima ben la ruina, e diedemi di piglio.

E come quei ch’adopera ed estima,

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che sempre par che ’nnanzi si proveggia, così, levando me sù ver’ la cima

d’un ronchione, avvisava un’altra scheggia dicendo: “Sovra quella poi t’aggrappa; ma tenta pria s’è tal ch’ella ti reggia.”

Non era via da vestito di cappa,   → ché noi a pena, ei lieve e io sospinto,   → potavam sù montar di chiappa in chiappa.

E se non fosse che da quel precinto più che da l’altro era la costa corta, non so di lui, ma io sarei ben vinto.

Ma perché Malebolge inver’ la porta   → del bassissimo pozzo tutta pende, lo sito di ciascuna valle porta

che l’una costa surge e l’altra scende; noi pur venimmo al �ne in su la punta onde l’ultima pietra si scoscende.

La lena m’era del polmon sì munta quand’io fui sù, ch’i’ non potea più oltre, anzi m’assisi ne la prima giunta.

“Omai convien che tu così ti spoltre,” disse ’l maestro; “ché, seggendo in piuma, in fama non si vien, né sotto coltre;

sanza la qual chi sua vita consuma,   → cotal vestigio in terra di sé lascia, qual fummo in aere e in acqua la schiuma.

E però leva sù; vinci l’ambascia con l’animo che vince ogne battaglia,

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se col suo grave corpo non s’accascia.

Più lunga scala convien che si saglia; non basta da costoro esser partito. Se tu mi ’ntendi, or fa sì che ti vaglia.”

Leva’mi allor, mostrandomi fornito   → meglio di lena ch’i’ non mi sentia, e dissi: “Va, ch’i’ son forte e ardito.”

Su per lo scoglio prendemmo la via, ch’era ronchioso, stretto e malagevole, ed erto più assai che quel di pria.

Parlando andava per non parer �evole; onde una voce uscì de l’altro fosso,   → a parole formar disconvenevole.

Non so che disse, ancor che sovra ’l dosso   → fossi de l’arco già che varca quivi; ma chi parlava ad ire parea mosso.

Io era vòlto in giù, ma li occhi vivi non poteano ire al fondo per lo scuro; per ch’io: “Maestro, fa che tu arrivi

da l’altro cinghio e dismontiam lo muro; ché, com’ i’ odo quinci e non intendo, così giù veggio e neente a�guro.”

“Altra risposta,” disse, “non ti rendo se non lo far; ché la dimanda onesta si de’ seguir con l’opera tacendo.”

Noi discendemmo il ponte de la testa   → dove s’aggiugne con l’ottava ripa, e poi mi fu la bolgia manifesta:

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e vidivi entro terribile stipa   → di serpenti, e di sì diversa mena che la memoria il sangue ancor mi scipa.

Più non si vanti Libia con sua rena;   → ché se chelidri, iaculi e faree produce, e cencri con an�sibena,

né tante pestilenzie né sì ree   → mostrò già mai con tutta l’Etïopia né con ciò che di sopra al Mar Rosso èe.

Tra questa cruda e tristissima copia   → corrëan genti nude e spaventate, sanza sperar pertugio o elitropia:

con serpi le man dietro avean legate; quelle �ccavan per le ren la coda e ’l capo, ed eran dinanzi aggroppate.

Ed ecco a un ch’era da nostra proda,   → s’avventò un serpente che ’l tra�sse   → là dove ’l collo a le spalle s’annoda.

Né O sì tosto mai né I si scrisse,   → com’ el s’accese e arse, e cener tutto convenne che cascando divenisse;

e poi che fu a terra sì distrutto, la polver si raccolse per sé stessa e ’n quel medesmo ritornò di butto.

Così per li gran savi si confessa che la fenice more e poi rinasce,   → quando al cinquecentesimo anno appressa;

erba né biado in sua vita non pasce,

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ma sol d’incenso lagrime e d’amomo, e nardo e mirra son l’ultime fasce.

E qual è quel che cade, e non sa como, per forza di demon ch’a terra il tira, o d’altra oppilazion che lega l’omo,

quando si leva, che ’ntorno si mira tutto smarrito de la grande angoscia ch’elli ha so�erta, e guardando sospira:

tal era ’l peccator levato poscia. Oh potenza di Dio, quant’ è severa,   → che cotai colpi per vendetta croscia!

Lo duca il domandò poi chi ello era; per ch’ei rispuose: “Io piovvi di Toscana,   → poco tempo è, in questa gola �era.

Vita bestial mi piacque e non umana, sì come a mul ch’i’ fui; son Vanni Fucci bestia, e Pistoia mi fu degna tana.”

E ïo al duca: “Dilli che non mucci,   → e domanda che colpa qua giù ’l pinse; ch’io ’l vidi omo di sangue e di crucci.”

E ’l peccator, che ’ntese, non s’in�nse, ma drizzò verso me l’animo e ’l volto, e di trista vergogna si dipinse;   →

poi disse: “Più mi duol che tu m’hai colto ne la miseria dove tu mi vedi, che quando fui de l’altra vita tolto.

Io non posso negar quel che tu chiedi; in giù son messo tanto perch’io fui

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ladro a la sagrestia d’i belli arredi,

e falsamente già fu apposto altrui. Ma perché di tal vista tu non godi,   → se mai sarai di fuor da’ luoghi bui,

apri li orecchi al mio annunzio, e odi. Pistoia in pria d’i Neri si dimagra;   → poi Fiorenza rinova gente e modi.

Tragge Marte vapor di Val di Magra ch’è di torbidi nuvoli involuto; e con tempesta impetüosa e agra

sovra Campo Picen �a combattuto; ond’ei repente spezzerà la nebbia, sì ch’ogne Bianco ne sarà feruto. E detto l’ho perché doler ti debbia!”   →

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INFERNO XXV

Al �ne de le sue parole il ladro   → le mani alzò con amendue le �che, gridando: “Togli, Dio, ch’a te le squadro!”

Da indi in qua mi fuor le serpi amiche,   → perch’ una li s’avvolse allora al collo,   → come dicesse “Non vo’ che più diche”

e un’altra a le braccia, e rilegollo, ribadendo sé stessa sì dinanzi, che non potea con esse dare un crollo.

Ahi Pistoia, Pistoia, ché non stanzi   → d’incenerarti sì che più non duri, poi che ’n mal fare il seme tuo avanzi?

Per tutt’ i cerchi de lo ’nferno scuri   → non vidi spirto in Dio tanto superbo, non quel che cadde a Tebe giù da’ muri.

El si fuggì che non parlò più verbo; e io vidi un centauro pien di rabbia   → venir chiamando: “Ov’ è, ov’ è l’acerbo?”

Maremma non cred’ io che tante n’abbia,   → quante bisce elli avea su per la groppa in�n ove comincia nostra labbia.

Sovra le spalle, dietro da la coppa, con l’ali aperte li giacea un draco; e quello a�uoca qualunque s’intoppa.

Lo mio maestro disse: “Questi è Caco, che, sotto ’l sasso di monte Aventino,

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di sangue fece spesse volte laco.

Non va co’ suoi fratei per un cammino, per lo furto che frodolente fece del grande armento ch’elli ebbe a vicino;

onde cessar le sue opere biece sotto la mazza d’Ercule, che forse gliene diè cento, e non sentì le diece.”

Mentre che sì parlava, ed el trascorse,   → e tre spiriti venner sotto noi, de’ quai né io né ’l duca mio s’accorse,

se non quando gridar: “Chi siete voi?” per che nostra novella si ristette, e intendemmo pur ad essi poi.

Io non li conoscea; ma ei seguette, come suol seguitar per alcun caso, che l’un nomar un altro convenette,

dicendo: “Cianfa dove �a rimaso?”   → per ch’io, acciò che ’l duca stesse attento,   → mi puosi ’l dito su dal mento al naso.

Se tu se’ or, lettore, a creder lento ciò ch’io dirò, non sarà maraviglia, ché io che ’l vidi, a pena il mi consento.

Com’ io tenea levate in lor le ciglia,   → e un serpente con sei piè si lancia dinanzi a l’uno, e tutto a lui s’appiglia.

Co’ piè di mezzo li avvinse la pancia e con li anterïor le braccia prese; poi li addentò e l’una e l’altra guancia;

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li diretani a le cosce distese, e miseli la coda tra ’mbedue e dietro per le ren sù la ritese.

Ellera abbarbicata mai non fue ad alber sì, come l’orribil �era per l’altrui membra avviticchiò le sue.

Poi s’appiccar, come di calda cera fossero stati, e mischiar lor colore, né l’un né l’altro già parea quel ch’era:

come procede innanzi da l’ardore,   → per lo papiro suso, un color bruno che non è nero ancora e ’l bianco more.

Li altri due ’l riguardavano, e ciascuno gridava: “Omè, Agnel, come ti muti!   → Vedi che già non se’ né due né uno.”   →

Già eran li due capi un divenuti, quando n’apparver due �gure miste in una faccia, ov’ eran due perduti.

Fersi le braccia due di quattro liste; le cosce con le gambe e ’l ventre e ’l casso divenner membra che non fuor mai viste.

Ogne primaio aspetto ivi era casso: due e nessun l’imagine perversa parea; e tal sen gio con lento passo.

Come ’l ramarro sotto la gran fersa   → dei dì canicular, cangiando sepe, folgore par se la via attraversa,

sì pareva, venendo verso l’epe   →

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de li altri due, un serpentello acceso, livido e nero come gran di pepe;

e quella parte onde prima è preso nostro alimento, a l’un di lor tra�sse; poi cadde giuso innanzi lui disteso.

Lo tra�tto ’l mirò, ma nulla disse; anzi, co’ piè fermati, sbadigliava pur come sonno o febbre l’assalisse.

Elli ’l serpente e quei lui riguardava; l’un per la piaga e l’altro per la bocca fummavan forte, e ’l fummo si scontrava.

Taccia Lucano omai là dov’ e’ tocca   → del misero Sabello e di Nasidio, e attenda a udir quel ch’or si scocca.

Taccia di Cadmo e d’Aretusa Ovidio, ché se quello in serpente e quella in fonte converte poetando, io non lo ’nvidio;

ché due nature mai a fronte a fronte non trasmutò sì ch’amendue le forme a cambiar lor matera fosser pronte.

Insieme si rispuosero a tai norme,   → che ’l serpente la coda in forca fesse, e ’l feruto ristrinse insieme l’orme.

Le gambe con le cosce seco stesse s’appiccar sì, che ’n poco la giuntura non facea segno alcun che si paresse.

Togliea la coda fessa la �gura che si perdeva là, e la sua pelle

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si facea molle, e quella di là dura.

Io vidi intrar le braccia per l’ascelle, e i due piè de la �era, ch’eran corti, tanto allungar quanto accorciavan quelle.

Poscia li piè di rietro, insieme attorti, diventaron lo membro che l’uom cela, e ’l misero del suo n’avea due porti.

Mentre che ’l fummo l’uno e l’altro vela di color novo, e genera ’l pel suso per l’una parte e da l’altra il dipela,

l’un si levò e l’altro cadde giuso, non torcendo però le lucerne empie, sotto le quai ciascun cambiava muso.

Quel ch’era dritto, il trasse ver’ le tempie, e di troppa matera ch’in là venne uscir li orecchi de le gote scempie;

ciò che non corse in dietro e si ritenne di quel soverchio, fé naso a la faccia e le labbra ingrossò quanto convenne.

Quel che giacëa, il muso innanzi caccia, e li orecchi ritira per la testa come face le corna la lumaccia;

e la lingua, ch’avëa unita e presta prima a parlar, si fende, e la forcuta ne l’altro si richiude; e ’l fummo resta.

L’anima ch’era �era divenuta, su�olando si fugge per la valle, e l’altro dietro a lui parlando sputa.

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Poscia li volse le novelle spalle,   → e disse a l’altro: “I’ vo’ che Buoso corra, com’ ho fatt’ io, carpon per questo calle.”

Così vid’ io la settima zavorra mutare e trasmutare; e qui mi scusi la novità se �or la penna abborra.   →

E avvegna che li occhi miei confusi fossero alquanto e l’animo smagato, non poter quei fuggirsi tanto chiusi,

ch’i’ non scorgessi ben Puccio Sciancato;   → ed era quel che sol, di tre compagni che venner prima, non era mutato; l’altr’ era quel che tu, Gaville, piagni.   →

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INFERNO XXVI

Godi, Fiorenza, poi che se’ sì grande   → che per mare e per terra batti l’ali, e per lo ’nferno tuo nome si spande!

Tra li ladron trovai cinque cotali tuoi cittadini onde mi ven vergogna, e tu in grande orranza non ne sali.

Ma se presso al mattin del ver si sogna,   → tu sentirai, di qua da picciol tempo,   → di quel che Prato, non ch’altri, t’agogna.

E se già fosse, non saria per tempo. Così foss’ ei, da che pur esser dee! ché più mi graverà, com’ più m’attempo.

Noi ci partimmo, e su per le scalee che n’avea fatto iborni a scender pria,   → rimontò ’l duca mio e trasse mee;

e proseguendo la solinga via, tra le schegge e tra ’ rocchi de lo scoglio lo piè sanza la man non si spedia.

Allor mi dolsi, e ora mi ridoglio   → quando drizzo la mente a ciò ch’io vidi, e più lo ’ngegno a�reno ch’i’ non soglio,

perché non corra che virtù nol guidi; sì che, se stella bona o miglior cosa m’ha dato ’l ben, ch’io stessi nol m’invidi.

Quante ’l villan ch’al poggio si riposa,   →

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nel tempo che colui che ’l mondo schiara la faccia sua a noi tien meno ascosa,

come la mosca cede a la zanzara, vede lucciole giù per la vallea, forse colà dov’ e’ vendemmia e ara:

di tante �amme tutta risplendea   → l’ottava bolgia, sì com’ io m’accorsi tosto che fui là ’ve ’l fondo parea.

E qual colui che si vengiò con li orsi   → vide ’l carro d’Elia al dipartire, quando i cavalli al cielo erti levorsi,

che nol potea sì con li occhi seguire, ch’el vedesse altro che la �amma sola, sì come nuvoletta, in sù salire:

tal si move ciascuna per la gola del fosso, ché nessuna mostra ’l furto, e ogne �amma un peccatore invola.

Io stava sovra ’l ponte a veder surto,   → sì che s’io non avessi un ronchion preso, caduto sarei giù sanz’ esser urto.

E ’l duca, che mi vide tanto atteso, disse: “Dentro dai fuochi son li spirti; catun si fascia di quel ch’elli è inceso.”   →

“Maestro mio,” rispuos’ io, “per udirti son io più certo; ma già m’era avviso che così fosse, e già voleva dirti:

chi è ’n quel foco che vien sì diviso   → di sopra, che par surger de la pira

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dov’ Eteòcle col fratel fu miso?”

Rispuose a me: “Là dentro si martira   → Ulisse e Dïomede, e così insieme a la vendetta vanno come a l’ira;

e dentro da la lor �amma si geme   → l’agguato del caval che fé la porta onde uscì de’ Romani il gentil seme.

Piangevisi entro l’arte per che, morta, Deïdamìa ancor si duol d’Achille, e del Palladio pena vi si porta.”

“S’ei posson dentro da quelle faville   → parlar,” diss’ io, “maestro, assai ten priego e ripriego, che ’l priego vaglia mille,

che non mi facci de l’attender niego �n che la �amma cornuta qua vegna; vedi che del disio ver’ lei mi piego!”

Ed elli a me: “La tua preghiera è degna   → di molta loda, e io però l’accetto; ma fa che la tua lingua si sostegna.

Lascia parlare a me, ch’i’ ho concetto ciò che tu vuoi; ch’ei sarebbero schivi, perch’ e’ fuor greci, forse del tuo detto.”

Poi che la �amma fu venuta quivi dove parve al mio duca tempo e loco, in questa forma lui parlare audivi:

“O voi che siete due dentro ad un foco,   → s’io meritai di voi mentre ch’io vissi, s’io meritai di voi assai o poco

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quando nel mondo li alti versi scrissi, non vi movete; ma l’un di voi dica dove, per lui, perduto a morir gissi.”

Lo maggior corno de la �amma antica cominciò a crollarsi mormorando, pur come quella cui vento a�atica;

indi la cima qua e là menando, come fosse la lingua che parlasse, gittò voce di fuori e disse: “Quando   →

mi diparti’ da Circe, che sottrasse me più d’un anno là presso a Gaeta, prima che sì Enëa la nomasse,

né dolcezza di �glio, né la pieta   → del vecchio padre, né ’l debito amore lo qual dovea Penelopè far lieta,

vincer potero dentro a me l’ardore ch’i’ ebbi a divenir del mondo esperto e de li vizi umani e del valore;

ma misi me per l’alto mare aperto   → sol con un legno e con quella compagna picciola da la qual non fui diserto.

L’un lito e l’altro vidi in�n la Spagna, �n nel Morrocco, e l’isola d’i Sardi, e l’altre che quel mare intorno bagna.

Io e ’ compagni eravam vecchi e tardi quando venimmo a quella foce stretta dov’ Ercule segnò li suoi riguardi

acció che l’uom più oltre non si metta;

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da la man destra mi lasciai Sibilia, da l’altra già m’avea lasciata Setta.

‘O frati,’ dissi, ’che per cento milia   → perigli siete giunti a l’occidente, a questa tanto picciola vigilia

d’i nostri sensi ch’è del rimanente non vogliate negar l’esperïenza, di retro al sol, del mondo sanza gente.

Considerate la vostra semenza:   → fatti non foste a viver come bruti, ma per seguir virtute e canoscenza.’

Li miei compagni fec’ io sì aguti,   → con questa orazion picciola, al cammino, che a pena poscia li avrei ritenuti;

e volta nostra poppa nel mattino,   → de’ remi facemmo ali al folle volo, sempre acquistando dal lato mancino.

Tutte le stelle già de l’altro polo   → vedea la notte, e ’l nostro tanto basso, che non surgëa fuor del marin suolo.

Cinque volte racceso e tante casso lo lume era di sotto da la luna, poi che ’ntrati eravam ne l’alto passo,

quando n’apparve una montagna, bruna per la distanza, e parvemi alta tanto quanto veduta non avëa alcuna.

Noi ci allegrammo, e tosto tornò in pianto;   → ché de la nova terra un turbo nacque   →

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e percosse del legno il primo canto.

Tre volte il fé girar con tutte l’acque;   → a la quarta levar la poppa in suso e la prora ire in giù, com’ altrui piacque, in�n che ’l mar fu sovra noi richiuso.”   →

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INFERNO XXVII

Già era dritta in sù la �amma e queta   → per non dir più, e già da noi sen gia con la licenza del dolce poeta,   →

quand’ un’altra, che dietro a lei venìa,   → ne fece volger li occhi a la sua cima per un confuso suon che fuor n’uscia.

Come ’l bue cicilian che mugghiò prima   → col pianto di colui, e ciò fu dritto, che l’avea temperato con sua lima,

mugghiava con la voce de l’a�itto, sì che, con tutto che fosse di rame, pur el pareva dal dolor tra�tto;

così, per non aver via né forame dal principio nel foco, in suo linguaggio si convertïan le parole grame.

Ma poscia ch’ebber colto lor vïaggio   → su per la punta, dandole quel guizzo che dato avea la lingua in lor passaggio,

udimmo dire: “O tu a cu’ io drizzo   → la voce e che parlavi mo lombardo, dicendo ‘Istra ten va, più non t’adizzo,’

perch’ io sia giunto forse alquanto tardo, non t’incresca restare a parlar meco; vedi che non incresce a me, e ardo!

Se tu pur mo in questo mondo cieco   →

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caduto se’ di quella dolce terra latina ond’ io mia colpa tutta reco,

dimmi se Romagnuoli han pace o guerra;   → ch’io fui d’i monti là intra Orbino e ’l giogo di che Tever si diserra.”

Io era in giuso ancora attento e chino, quando il mio duca mi tentò di costa, dicendo: “Parla tu; questi è latino.”   →

E io, ch’avea già pronta la risposta, sanza indugio a parlare incominciai: “O anima che se’ là giù nascosta,

Romagna tua non è, e non fu mai,   → sanza guerra ne’ cuor de’ suoi tiranni; ma ’n palese nessuna or vi lasciai.

Ravenna sta come stata è molt’ anni:   → l’aguglia da Polenta la si cova, sì che Cervia ricuopre co’ suoi vanni.

La terra che fé già la lunga prova e di Franceschi sanguinoso mucchio, sotto le branche verdi si ritrova.

E ’l mastin vecchio e ’l nuovo da Verrucchio, che fecer di Montagna il mal governo, là dove soglion fan d’i denti succhio.

Le città di Lamone e di Santerno conduce il lïoncel dal nido bianco, che muta parte da la state al verno.

E quella cu’ il Savio bagna il �anco, così com’ ella sie’ tra ’l piano e ’l monte,

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tra tirannia si vive e stato franco.

Ora chi se’, ti priego che ne conte;   → non esser duro più ch’altri sia stato, se ’l nome tuo nel mondo tegna fronte.”

Poscia che ’l foco alquanto ebbe rugghiato al modo suo, l’aguta punta mosse di qua, di là, e poi diè cotal �ato:

“S’i’ credesse che mia risposta fosse   → a persona che mai tornasse al mondo, questa �amma staria sanza più scosse;

ma però che già mai di questo fondo non tornò vivo alcun, s’i’ odo il vero, sanza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Io fui uom d’arme, e poi fui cordigliero,   → credendomi, sì cinto, fare ammenda; e certo il creder mio venìa intero,

se non fosse il gran prete, a cui mal prenda!,   → che mi rimise ne le prime colpe; e come e quare, voglio che m’intenda.

Mentre ch’io forma fui d’ossa e di polpe che la madre mi diè, l’opere mie non furon leonine, ma di volpe.   →

Li accorgimenti e le coperte vie io seppi tutte, e sì menai lor arte, ch’al �ne de la terra il suono uscie.

Quando mi vidi giunto in quella parte   → di mia etade ove ciascun dovrebbe calar le vele e raccoglier le sarte,

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ciò che pria mi piacëa, allor m’increbbe,   → e pentuto e confesso mi rendei; ahi miser lasso! e giovato sarebbe.

Lo principe d’i novi Farisei,   → avendo guerra presso a Laterano, e non con Saracin né con Giudei,

ché ciascun suo nimico era Cristiano, e nessun era stato a vincer Acri né mercatante in terra di Soldano,

né sommo o�cio né ordini sacri guardò in sé, né in me quel capestro che solea fare i suoi cinti più macri.

Ma come Costantin chiese Silvestro   → d’entro Siratti a guerir de la lebbre, così mi chiese questi per maestro

a guerir de la sua superba febbre; domandommi consiglio, e io tacetti perché le sue parole parver ebbre.

E’ poi ridisse: ‘Tuo cuor non sospetti; �nor t’assolvo, e tu m’insegna fare sì come Penestrino in terra getti.   →

Lo ciel poss’ io serrare e diserrare,   → come tu sai; però son due le chiavi che ’l mio antecessor non ebbe care.’

Allor mi pinser li argomenti gravi   → là ’ve ’l tacer mi fu avviso ’l peggio, e dissi: ‘Padre, da che tu mi lavi

di quel peccato ov’ io mo cader deggio,

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lunga promessa con l’attender corto ti farà trïunfar ne l’alto seggio.’

Francesco venne poi, com’ io fu’ morto,   → per me; ma un d’i neri cherubini li disse: ‘Non portar; non mi far torto.

Venir se ne dee giù tra ’ miei meschini perché diede ’l consiglio frodolente,   → dal quale in qua stato li sono a’ crini;

ch’assolver non si può chi non si pente,   → né pentere e volere insieme puossi per la contradizion che nol consente.’

Oh me dolente! come mi riscossi quando mi prese dicendomi: ‘Forse tu non pensavi ch’io löico fossi!’

A Minòs mi portò; e quelli attorse   → otto volte la coda al dosso duro; e poi che per gran rabbia la si morse,

disse: ‘Questi è d’i rei del foco furo’; per ch’io là dove vedi son perduto,   → e sì vestito, andando, mi rancuro.”

Quand’ elli ebbe ’l suo dir così compiuto, la �amma dolorando si partio, torcendo e dibattendo ’l corno aguto.

Noi passamm’ oltre, e io e ’l duca mio, su per lo scoglio in�no in su l’altr’ arco che cuopre ’l fosso in che si paga il �o a quei che scommettendo acquistan carco.

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INFERNO XXVIII

Chi poria mai pur con parole sciolte   → dicer del sangue e de le piaghe a pieno ch’i’ ora vidi, per narrar più volte?

Ogne lingua per certo verria meno per lo nostro sermone e per la mente c’hanno a tanto comprender poco seno.

S’el s’aunasse ancor tutta la gente   → che già, in su la fortunata terra di Puglia, fu del suo sangue dolente   →

per li Troiani e per la lunga guerra che de l’anella fé sì alte spoglie, come Livïo scrive, che non erra,   →

con quella che sentio di colpi doglie   → per contastare a Ruberto Guiscardo; e l’altra il cui ossame ancor s’accoglie   →

a Ceperan, là dove fu bugiardo ciascun Pugliese, e là da Tagliacozzo,   → dove sanz’ arme vinse il vecchio Alardo;

e qual forato suo membro e qual mozzo   → mostrasse, d’aequar sarebbe nulla il modo de la nona bolgia sozzo.

Già veggia, per mezzul perdere o lulla,   → com’ io vidi un, così non si pertugia, rotto dal mento in�n dove si trulla.

Tra le gambe pendevan le minugia;

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la corata pareva e ’l tristo sacco che merda fa di quel che si trangugia.

Mentre che tutto in lui veder m’attacco, guardommi e con le man s’aperse il petto, dicendo: “Or vedi com’ io mi dilacco!

vedi come storpiato è Mäometto! Dinanzi a me sen va piangendo Alì,   → fesso nel volto dal mento al ciu�etto.

E tutti li altri che tu vedi qui, seminator di scandalo e di scisma   → fuor vivi, e però son fessi così.

Un diavolo è qua dietro che n’accisma   → sì crudelmente, al taglio de la spada rimettendo ciascun di questa risma,

quand’ avem volta la dolente strada; però che le ferite son richiuse prima ch’altri dinanzi li rivada.

Ma tu chi se’ che ’n su lo scoglio muse,   → forse per indugiar d’ire a la pena ch’è giudicata in su le tue accuse?”

“Né morte ’l giunse ancor, né colpa ’l mena,” rispuose ’l mio maestro, “a tormentarlo; ma per dar lui esperïenza piena,

a me, che morto son, convien menarlo per lo ’nferno qua giù di giro in giro; e quest’ è ver così com’ io ti parlo.”

Più fuor di cento che, quando l’udiro, s’arrestaron nel fosso a riguardarmi

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per maraviglia, oblïando il martiro.

“Or dì a fra Dolcin dunque che s’armi,   → tu che forse vedra’ il sole in breve, s’ello non vuol qui tosto seguitarmi,

sì di vivanda, che stretta di neve non rechi la vittoria al Noarese, ch’altrimenti acquistar non saria leve.”

Poi che l’un piè per girsene sospese,   → Mäometto mi disse esta parola; indi a partirsi in terra lo distese.

Un altro, che forata avea la gola e tronco ’l naso in�n sotto le ciglia,   → e non avea mai ch’una orecchia sola,

ristato a riguardar per maraviglia con li altri, innanzi a li altri aprì la canna,   → ch’era di fuor d’ogne parte vermiglia,

e disse: “O tu cui colpa non condanna   → e cu’ io vidi in su terra latina, se troppa simiglianza non m’inganna,

rimembriti di Pier da Medicina, se mai torni a veder lo dolce piano che da Vercelli a Marcabò dichina.

E fa sapere a’ due miglior da Fano,   → a messer Guido e anco ad Angiolello, che, se l’antiveder qui non è vano,

gittati saran fuor di lor vasello e mazzerati presso a la Cattolica per tradimento d’un tiranno fello.

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Tra l’isola di Cipri e di Maiolica   → non vide mai sì gran fallo Nettuno, non da pirate, non da gente argolica.

Quel traditor che vede pur con l’uno,   → e tien la terra che tale qui meco vorrebbe di vedere esser digiuno,

farà venirli a parlamento seco; poi farà sì, ch’al vento di Focara   → non sarà lor mestier voto né preco.”

E io a lui: “Dimostrami e dichiara,   → se vuo’ ch’i’ porti sù di te novella, chi è colui da la veduta amara.”

Allor puose la mano a la mascella d’un suo compagno e la bocca li aperse, gridando: “Questi è desso, e non favella.   →

Questi, scacciato, il dubitar sommerse in Cesare, a�ermando che ’l fornito sempre con danno l’attender so�erse.”

Oh quanto mi pareva sbigottito con la lingua tagliata ne la strozza Curïo, ch’a dir fu così ardito!

E un ch’avea l’una e l’altra man mozza,   → levando i moncherin per l’aura fosca, sì che ’l sangue facea la faccia sozza,

gridò: “Ricordera’ti anche del Mosca, che disse, lasso! ‘Capo ha cosa fatta,’ che fu mal seme per la gente tosca.”

E io li aggiunsi: “E morte di tua schiatta”;   →

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per ch’elli, accumulando duol con duolo, sen gio come persona trista e matta.

Ma io rimasi a riguardar lo stuolo, e vidi cosa ch’io avrei paura, sanza più prova, di contarla solo;

se non che coscïenza m’assicura,   → la buona compagnia che l’uom francheggia sotto l’asbergo del sentirsi pura.

Io vidi certo, e ancor par ch’io ’l veggia, un busto sanza capo andar sì come andavan li altri de la trista greggia;

e ’l capo tronco tenea per le chiome, pesol con mano a guisa di lanterna: e quel mirava noi e dicea: “Oh me!”

Di sé facea a sé stesso lucerna, ed eran due in uno e uno in due; com’ esser può, quei sa che sì governa.

Quando diritto al piè del ponte fue, levò ’l braccio alto con tutta la testa per appressarne le parole sue,

che fuoro: “Or vedi la pena molesta,   → tu che, spirando, vai veggendo i morti: vedi s’alcuna è grande come questa.

E perché tu di me novella porti, sappi ch’i’ son Bertram dal Bornio, quelli che diedi al re giovane i ma’ conforti.

Io feci il padre e ’l �glio in sé ribelli; Achitofèl non fé più d’Absalone

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e di Davìd coi malvagi punzelli.

Perch’ io parti’ così giunte persone, partito porto il mio cerebro, lasso!, dal suo principio ch’è in questo troncone. Così s’osserva in me lo contrapasso.”   →

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INFERNO XXIX

La molta gente e le diverse piaghe   → avean le luci mie sì inebrïate, che de lo stare a piangere eran vaghe.

Ma Virgilio mi disse: “Che pur guate?   → perché la vista tua pur si so�olge là giù tra l’ombre triste smozzicate?

Tu non hai fatto sì a l’altre bolge; pensa, se tu annoverar le credi,   → che miglia ventidue la valle volge.

E già la luna è sotto i nostri piedi;   → lo tempo è poco omai che n’è concesso,   → e altro è da veder che tu non vedi.”

“Se tu avessi,” rispuos’ io appresso,   → “atteso a la cagion per ch’io guardava, forse m’avresti ancor lo star dimesso.”

Parte sen giva, e io retro li andava, lo duca, già faccendo la risposta, e soggiugnendo: “Dentro a quella cava

dov’ io tenea or li occhi sì a posta, credo ch’un spirto del mio sangue pianga la colpa che là giù cotanto costa.”

Allor disse ’l maestro: “Non si franga   → lo tuo pensier da qui innanzi sovr’ ello. Attendi ad altro, ed ei là si rimanga;

ch’io vidi lui a piè del ponticello

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mostrarti e minacciar forte col dito, e udi’ ’l nominar Geri del Bello.

Tu eri allor sì del tutto impedito sovra colui che già tenne Altaforte, che non guardasti in là, sì fu partito.”

“O duca mio, la vïolenta morte   → che non li è vendicata ancor,” diss’ io, “per alcun che de l’onta sia consorte,

fece lui disdegnoso; ond’ el sen gio sanza parlarmi, sì com’ ïo estimo: e in ciò m’ha el fatto a sé più pio.”

Così parlammo in�no al loco primo   → che de lo scoglio l’altra valle mostra, se più lume vi fosse, tutto ad imo.

Quando noi fummo sor l’ultima chiostra   → di Malebolge, sì che i suoi conversi potean parere a la veduta nostra,

lamenti saettaron me diversi, che di pietà ferrati avean li strali; ond’ io li orecchi con le man copersi.

Qual dolor fora, se de li spedali   → di Valdichiana tra ’l luglio e ’l settembre e di Maremma e di Sardigna i mali

fossero in una fossa tutti ’nsembre, tal era quivi, e tal puzzo n’usciva qual suol venir de le marcite membre.

Noi discendemmo in su l’ultima riva   → del lungo scoglio, pur da man sinistra;

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e allor fu la mia vista più viva   →

giù ver’ lo fondo, là ’ve la ministra de l’alto Sire infallibil giustizia punisce i falsador che qui registra.

Non credo ch’a veder maggior tristizia   → fosse in Egina il popol tutto infermo, quando fu l’aere sì pien di malizia,

che li animali, in�no al picciol vermo, cascaron tutti, e poi le genti antiche, secondo che i poeti hanno per fermo,

si ristorar di seme di formiche; ch’era a veder per quella oscura valle languir li spirti per diverse biche.

Qual sovra ’l ventre e qual sovra le spalle l’un de l’altro giacea, e qual carpone si trasmutava per lo tristo calle.

Passo passo andavam sanza sermone, guardando e ascoltando li ammalati, che non potean levar le lor persone.

Io vidi due sedere a sé poggiati,   → com’ a scaldar si poggia tegghia a tegghia, dal capo al piè di schianze macolati;

e non vidi già mai menare stregghia a ragazzo aspettato dal segnorso, né a colui che mal volontier vegghia,

come ciascun menava spesso il morso de l’unghie sopra sé per la gran rabbia del pizzicor, che non ha più soccorso;

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e sì traevan giù l’unghie la scabbia, come coltel di scardova le scaglie o d’altro pesce che più larghe l’abbia.

“O tu che con le dita ti dismaglie,”   → cominciò ’l duca mio a l’un di loro, “e che fai d’esse tal volta tanaglie,

dinne s’alcun Latino è tra costoro che son quinc’ entro, se l’unghia ti basti etternalmente a cotesto lavoro.”

“Latin siam noi, che tu vedi sì guasti qui ambedue,” rispuose l’un piangendo; “ma tu chi se’ che di noi dimandasti?”

E ’l duca disse: “I’ son un che discendo con questo vivo giù di balzo in balzo, e di mostrar lo ’nferno a lui intendo.”

Allor si ruppe lo comun rincalzo; e tremando ciascuno a me si volse con altri che l’udiron di rimbalzo.

Lo buon maestro a me tutto s’accolse, dicendo: “Dì a lor ciò che tu vuoli”; e io incominciai, poscia ch’ei volse:

“Se la vostra memoria non s’imboli nel primo mondo da l’umane menti, ma s’ella viva sotto molti soli,

ditemi chi voi siete e di che genti; la vostra sconcia e fastidiosa pena di palesarvi a me non vi spaventi.”

“Io fui d’Arezzo, e Albero da Siena,”   →

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rispuose l’un, “mi fé mettere al foco; ma quel per ch’io mori’ qui non mi mena.

Vero è ch’i’ dissi lui, parlando a gioco: ‘I’ mi saprei levar per l’aere a volo’; e quei, ch’avea vaghezza e senno poco,

volle ch’i’ li mostrassi l’arte; e solo perch’ io nol feci Dedalo, mi fece ardere a tal che l’avea per �gliuolo.

Ma ne l’ultima bolgia de le diece me per l’alchìmia che nel mondo usai dannò Minòs, a cui fallar non lece.”

E io dissi al poeta: “Or fu già mai   → gente sì vana come la sanese? Certo non la francesca sì d’assai!”

Onde l’altro lebbroso, che m’intese,   → rispuose al detto mio: “Tra’mene Stricca che seppe far le temperate spese,

e Niccolò che la costuma ricca del garofano prima discoverse ne l’orto dove tal seme s’appicca;

e tra’ne la brigata in che disperse Caccia d’Ascian la vigna e la gran fonda, e l’Abbagliato suo senno proferse.

Ma perché sappi chi sì ti seconda contra i Sanesi, aguzza ver’ me l’occhio, sì che la faccia mia ben ti risponda:

sì vedrai ch’io son l’ombra di Capocchio,   → che falsai li metalli con l’alchìmia;

139 e te dee ricordar, se ben t’adocchio, com’ io fui di natura buona scimia.”

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INFERNO XXX

Nel tempo che Iunone era crucciata   → per Semelè contra ’l sangue tebano, come mostrò una e altra fïata,

Atamante divenne tanto insano, che veggendo la moglie con due �gli andar carcata da ciascuna mano,

gridò: “Tendiam le reti, sì ch’io pigli la leonessa e ’ leoncini al varco”; e poi distese i dispietati artigli,

prendendo l’un ch’avea nome Learco, e rotollo e percosselo ad un sasso; e quella s’annegò con l’altro carco.

E quando la fortuna volse in basso   → l’altezza de’ Troian che tutto ardiva, sì che ’nsieme col regno il re fu casso,

Ecuba trista, misera e cattiva, poscia che vide Polissena morta, e del suo Polidoro in su la riva

del mar si fu la dolorosa accorta, forsennata latrò sì come cane; tanto il dolor le fé la mente torta.

Ma né di Tebe furie né troiane   → si vider mäi in alcun tanto crude, non punger bestie, nonché membra umane,

quant’ io vidi in due ombre smorte e nude, che mordendo correvan di quel modo

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che ’l porco quando del porcil si schiude.

L’una giunse a Capocchio, e in sul nodo   → del collo l’assannò, sì che, tirando, grattar li fece il ventre al fondo sodo.

E l’Aretin che rimase, tremando mi disse: “Quel folletto è Gianni Schicchi, e va rabbioso altrui così conciando.”

“Oh,” diss’ io lui, “se l’altro non ti �cchi li denti a dosso, non ti sia fatica a dir chi è, pria che di qui si spicchi.”

Ed elli a me: “Quell’ è l’anima antica   → di Mirra scellerata, che divenne al padre, fuor del dritto amore, amica.

Questa a peccar con esso così venne, falsi�cando sé in altrui forma, come l’altro che là sen va, sostenne,   →

per guadagnar la donna de la torma, falsi�care in sé Buoso Donati, testando e dando al testamento norma.”

E poi che i due rabbiosi fuor passati   → sovra cu’ io avea l’occhio tenuto, rivolsilo a guardar li altri mal nati.

Io vidi un, fatto a guisa di lëuto,   → pur ch’elli avesse avuta l’anguinaia tronca da l’altro che l’uomo ha forcuto.

La grave idropesì, che sì dispaia   → le membra con l’omor che mal converte, che ’l viso non risponde a la ventraia,

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faceva lui tener le labbra aperte come l’etico fa, che per la sete l’un verso ’l mento e l’altro in sù rinverte.

“O voi che sanz’ alcuna pena siete,   → e non so io perché, nel mondo gramo,” diss’ elli a noi, “guardate e attendete

a la miseria del maestro Adamo; io ebbi, vivo, assai di quel ch’i’ volli, e ora, lasso!, un gocciol d’acqua bramo.

Li ruscelletti che d’i verdi colli   → del Casentin discendon giuso in Arno, faccendo i lor canali freddi e molli,

sempre mi stanno innanzi, e non indarno, ché l’imagine lor vie più m’asciuga che ’l male ond’ io nel volto mi discarno.

La rigida giustizia che mi fruga tragge cagion del loco ov’ io peccai a metter più li miei sospiri in fuga.

Ivi è Romena, là dov’ io falsai la lega suggellata del Batista; per ch’io il corpo sù arso lasciai.

Ma s’io vedessi qui l’anima trista   → di Guido o d’Alessandro o di lor frate, per Fonte Branda non darei la vista.

Dentro c’è l’una già, se l’arrabbiate   → ombre che vanno intorno dicon vero; ma che mi val, c’ho le membra legate?

S’io fossi pur di tanto ancor leggero   →

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ch’i’ potessi in cent’ anni andare un’oncia, io sarei messo già per lo sentiero,

cercando lui tra questa gente sconcia, con tutto ch’ella volge undici miglia, e men d’un mezzo di traverso non ci ha.

Io son per lor tra sì fatta famiglia;   → e’ m’indussero a batter li �orini ch’avevan tre carati di mondiglia.”

E io a lui: “Chi son li due tapini che fumman come man bagnate ’l verno, giacendo stretti a’ tuoi destri con�ni?”

“Qui li trovai—e poi volta non dierno—,” rispuose, “quando piovvi in questo greppo, e non credo che dieno in sempiterno.

L’una è la falsa ch’accusò Gioseppo;   → l’altr’ è ’l falso Sinon greco di Troia: per febbre aguta gittan tanto leppo.”

E l’un di lor, che si recò a noia   → forse d’esser nomato sì oscuro, col pugno li percosse l’epa croia.

Quella sonò come fosse un tamburo; e mastro Adamo li percosse il volto col braccio suo, che non parve men duro,

dicendo a lui: “Ancor che mi sia tolto lo muover per le membra che son gravi, ho io il braccio a tal mestiere sciolto.”

Ond’ ei rispuose: “Quando tu andavi al fuoco, non l’avei tu così presto;

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ma sì e più l’avei quando coniavi.”

E l’idropico: “Tu di’ ver di questo: ma tu non fosti sì ver testimonio là ’ve del ver fosti a Troia richesto.”

“S’io dissi falso, e tu falsasti il conio,”   → disse Sinon; “e son qui per un fallo, e tu per più ch’alcun altro demonio!”

“Ricorditi, spergiuro, del cavallo,”   → rispuose quel ch’avëa in�ata l’epa; “e sieti reo che tutto il mondo sallo!”

“E te sia rea la sete onde ti crepa,” disse ’l Greco, “la lingua, e l’acqua marcia che ’l ventre innanzi a li occhi sì t’assiepa!”

Allora il monetier: “Così si squarcia la bocca tua per tuo mal come suole; ché s’i’ ho sete e omor mi rinfarcia,   →

tu hai l’arsura e ’l capo che ti duole, e per leccar lo specchio di Narcisso, non vorresti a ’nvitar molte parole.”

Ad ascoltarli er’ io del tutto �sso, quando ’l maestro mi disse: “Or pur mira,   → che per poco che teco non mi risso!”

Quand’ io ’l senti’ a me parlar con ira, volsimi verso lui con tal vergogna, ch’ancor per la memoria mi si gira.

Qual è colui che suo dannaggio sogna,   → che sognando desidera sognare, sì che quel ch’è, come non fosse, agogna,

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tal mi fec’ io, non possendo parlare, che disïava scusarmi, e scusava me tuttavia, e nol mi credea fare.

“Maggior difetto men vergogna lava,”   → disse ’l maestro, “che ’l tuo non è stato; però d’ogne trestizia ti disgrava.

E fa ragion ch’io ti sia sempre allato, se più avvien che fortuna t’accoglia dove sien genti in simigliante piato: ché voler ciò udire è bassa voglia.”

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INFERNO XXXI

Una medesma lingua pria mi morse,   → sì che mi tinse l’una e l’altra guancia, e poi la medicina mi riporse;

così od’ io che solea far la lancia d’Achille e del suo padre esser cagione prima di trista e poi di buona mancia.

Noi demmo il dosso al misero vallone   → su per la ripa che ’l cinge dintorno, attraversando sanza alcun sermone.

Quiv’ era men che notte e men che giorno, sì che ’l viso m’andava innanzi poco; ma io senti’ sonare un alto corno,

tanto ch’avrebbe ogne tuon fatto �oco, che, contra sé la sua via seguitando, dirizzò li occhi miei tutti ad un loco.

Dopo la dolorosa rotta, quando   → Carlo Magno perdé la santa gesta, non sonò sì terribilmente Orlando.

Poco portäi in là volta la testa,   → che me parve veder molte alte torri; ond’ io: “Maestro, dì, che terra è questa?”

Ed elli a me: “Però che tu trascorri per le tenebre troppo da la lungi, avvien che poi nel maginare abborri.

Tu vedrai ben, se tu là ti congiungi,

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quanto ’l senso s’inganna di lontano; però alquanto più te stesso pungi.”

Poi caramente mi prese per mano   → e disse: “Pria che noi siam più avanti, acciò che ’l fatto men ti paia strano,

sappi che non son torri, ma giganti, e son nel pozzo intorno da la ripa da l’umbilico in giuso tutti quanti.”

Come quando la nebbia si dissipa,   → lo sguardo a poco a poco ra�gura ciò che cela ’l vapor che l’aere stipa,

così forando l’aura grossa e scura, più e più appressando ver’ la sponda, fuggiemi errore e crescémi paura;

però che, come su la cerchia tonda   → Montereggion di torri si corona, così la proda che ’l pozzo circonda

torreggiavan di mezza la persona li orribili giganti, cui minaccia Giove del cielo ancora quando tuona.

E io scorgeva già d’alcun la faccia, le spalle e ’l petto e del ventre gran parte, e per le coste giù ambo le braccia.

Natura certo, quando lasciò l’arte   → di sì fatti animali, assai fé bene per tòrre tali essecutori a Marte.

E s’ella d’elefanti e di balene non si pente, chi guarda sottilmente,

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più giusta e più discreta la ne tene;

ché dove l’argomento de la mente s’aggiugne al mal volere e a la possa, nessun riparo vi può far la gente.

La faccia sua mi parea lunga e grossa   → come la pina di San Pietro a Roma, e a sua proporzione eran l’altre ossa;

sì che la ripa, ch’era perizoma dal mezzo in giù, ne mostrava ben tanto di sovra, che di giugnere a la chioma

tre Frison s’averien dato mal vanto; però ch’i’ ne vedea trenta gran palmi dal loco in giù dov’ omo a�bbia ’l manto.

“Raphèl maì amècche zabì almi,”   → cominciò a gridar la �era bocca, cui non si convenia più dolci salmi.   →

E ’l duca mio ver’ lui: “Anima sciocca,   → tienti col corno, e con quel ti disfoga quand’ ira o altra passïon ti tocca!

Cércati al collo, e troverai la soga che ’l tien legato, o anima confusa, e vedi lui che ’l gran petto ti doga.”

Poi disse a me: “Elli stessi s’accusa; questi è Nembrotto per lo cui mal coto pur un linguaggio nel mondo non s’usa.

Lasciànlo stare e non parliamo a vòto; ché così è a lui ciascun linguaggio come ’l suo ad altrui, ch’a nullo è noto.”

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Facemmo adunque più lungo vïaggio, vòlti a sinistra; e al trar d’un balestro trovammo l’altro assai più fero e maggio.   →

A cigner lui qual che fosse ’l maestro, non so io dir, ma el tenea soccinto dinanzi l’altro e dietro il braccio destro

d’una catena che ’l tenea avvinto dal collo in giù, sì che ’n su lo scoperto si ravvolgëa in�no al giro quinto.

“Questo superbo volle esser esperto   → di sua potenza contra ’l sommo Giove,” disse ’l mio duca, “ond’ elli ha cotal merto.

Fïalte ha nome, e fece le gran prove quando i giganti fer paura a’ dèi; le braccia ch’el menò, già mai non move.”

E io a lui: “S’esser puote, io vorrei   → che de lo smisurato Brïareo esperïenza avesser li occhi mei.”

Ond’ ei rispuose: “Tu vedrai Anteo presso di qui che parla ed è disciolto, che ne porrà nel fondo d’ogne reo.

Quel che tu vuo’ veder, più là è molto ed è legato e fatto come questo, salvo che più feroce par nel volto.”

Non fu tremoto già tanto rubesto, che scotesse una torre così forte, come Fïalte a scuotersi fu presto.   →

Allor temett’ io più che mai la morte,

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e non v’era mestier più che la dotta, s’io non avessi viste le ritorte.

Noi procedemmo più avante allotta, e venimmo ad Anteo, che ben cinque alle,   → sanza la testa, uscia fuor de la grotta.

“O tu che ne la fortunata valle   → che fece Scipïon di gloria reda, quand’ Anibàl co’ suoi diede le spalle,

recasti già mille leon per preda, e che, se fossi stato a l’alta guerra de’ tuoi fratelli, ancor par che si creda

ch’avrebber vinto i �gli de la terra: mettine giù, e non ten vegna schifo, dove Cocito la freddura serra.

Non ci fare ire a Tizio né a Tifo: questi può dar di quel che qui si brama;   → però ti china e non torcer lo grifo.

Ancor ti può nel mondo render fama, ch’el vive, e lunga vita ancor aspetta se ’nnanzi tempo grazia a sé nol chiama.”

Così disse ’l maestro; e quelli in fretta le man distese, e prese ’l duca mio, ond’ Ercule sentì già grande stretta.

Virgilio, quando prender si sentio, disse a me: “Fatti qua, sì ch’io ti prenda”; poi fece sì ch’un fascio era elli e io.

Qual pare a riguardar la Carisenda   → sotto ’l chinato, quando un nuvol vada

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sovr’ essa sì, ched ella incontro penda:

tal parve Antëo a me che stava a bada di vederlo chinare, e fu tal ora ch’i’ avrei voluto ir per altra strada.

Ma lievemente al fondo che divora   → Lucifero con Giuda, ci sposò; né, sì chinato, li fece dimora,   → e come albero in nave si levò.

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INFERNO XXXII

S’ïo avessi le rime aspre e chiocce,   → come si converrebbe al tristo buco sovra ’l qual pontan tutte l’altre rocce,

io premerei di mio concetto il suco più pienamente; ma perch’ io non l’abbo, non sanza tema a dicer mi conduco;

ché non è impresa da pigliare a gabbo discriver fondo a tutto l’universo, né da lingua che chiami mamma o babbo.

Ma quelle donne aiutino il mio verso   → ch’aiutaro Anfïone a chiuder Tebe, sì che dal fatto il dir non sia diverso.

Oh sovra tutte mal creata plebe   → che stai nel loco onde parlare è duro, mei foste state qui pecore o zebe!

Come noi fummo giù nel pozzo scuro   → sotto i piè del gigante assai più bassi, e io mirava ancora a l’alto muro,

dicere udi’mi: “Guarda come passi:   → va sì, che tu non calchi con le piante le teste de’ fratei miseri lassi.”

Per ch’io mi volsi, e vidimi davante   → e sotto i piedi un lago che per gelo avea di vetro e non d’acqua sembiante.

Non fece al corso suo sì grosso velo   →

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di verno la Danoia in Osterlicchi, né Tanaï là sotto ’l freddo cielo,

com’ era quivi; che se Tambernicchi vi fosse sù caduto, o Pietrapana, non avria pur da l’orlo fatto cricchi.

E come a gracidar si sta la rana   → col muso fuor de l’acqua, quando sogna di spigolar sovente la villana,

livide, insin là dove appar vergogna eran l’ombre dolenti ne la ghiaccia, mettendo i denti in nota di cicogna.

Ognuna in giù tenea volta la faccia;   → da bocca il freddo, e da li occhi il cor tristo tra lor testimonianza si procaccia.

Quand’ io m’ebbi dintorno alquanto visto, volsimi a’ piedi, e vidi due sì stretti, che ’l pel del capo avieno insieme misto.

“Ditemi, voi che sì strignete i petti,” diss’ io, “chi siete?” E quei piegaro i colli; e poi ch’ebber li visi a me eretti,

li occhi lor, ch’eran pria pur dentro molli,   → gocciar su per le labbra, e ’l gelo strinse le lagrime tra essi e riserrolli.

Con legno legno spranga mai non cinse forte così; ond’ ei come due becchi cozzaro insieme, tanta ira li vinse.

E un ch’avea perduti ambo li orecchi per la freddura, pur col viso in giùe,

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disse: “Perché cotanto in noi ti specchi?   →

Se vuoi saper chi son cotesti due, la valle onde Bisenzo si dichina del padre loro Alberto e di lor fue.

D’un corpo usciro; e tutta la Caina potrai cercare, e non troverai ombra degna più d’esser �tta in gelatina:

non quelli a cui fu rotto il petto e l’ombra con esso un colpo per la man d’Artù; non Focaccia; non questi che m’ingombra

col capo sì, ch’i’ non veggio oltre più, e fu nomato Sassol Mascheroni; se tosco se’, ben sai omai chi fu.

E perché non mi metti in più sermoni, sappi ch’i’ fu’ il Camiscion de’ Pazzi; e aspetto Carlin che mi scagioni.”

Poscia vid’ io mille visi cagnazzi   → fatti per freddo; onde mi vien riprezzo, e verrà sempre, de’ gelati guazzi.

E mentre ch’andavamo inver’ lo mezzo   → al quale ogne gravezza si rauna, e io tremava ne l’etterno rezzo;

se voler fu o destino o fortuna, non so; ma, passeggiando tra le teste, forte percossi ’l piè nel viso ad una.