The Divine Comedy, Dante Alighieri [best ebook reader txt] 📗

entrance at the gate, say who Is yon huge spirit, that, as seems, heeds not The burning, but lies writhen in proud scorn, As by the sultry tempest immatur’d?”

Straight he himself, who was aware I ask’d My guide of him, exclaim’d: “Such as I was When living, dead such now I am. If Jove Weary his workman out, from whom in ire He snatch’d the lightnings, that at my last day Transfix’d me, if the rest be weary out At their black smithy labouring by turns In Mongibello, while he cries aloud; “Help, help, good Mulciber!” as erst he cried In the Phlegraean warfare, and the bolts Launch he full aim’d at me with all his might, He never should enjoy a sweet revenge.”

Then thus my guide, in accent higher rais’d Than I before had heard him: “Capaneus!

Thou art more punish’d, in that this thy pride Lives yet unquench’d: no torrent, save thy rage, Were to thy fury pain proportion’d full.”

Next turning round to me with milder lip He spake: “This of the seven kings was one, Who girt the Theban walls with siege, and held, As still he seems to hold, God in disdain, And sets his high omnipotence at nought.

But, as I told him, his despiteful mood Is ornament well suits the breast that wears it.

Follow me now; and look thou set not yet Thy foot in the hot sand, but to the wood Keep ever close.” Silently on we pass’d To where there gushes from the forest’s bound A little brook, whose crimson’d wave yet lifts My hair with horror. As the rill, that runs From Bulicame, to be portion’d out Among the sinful women; so ran this Down through the sand, its bottom and each bank Stone-built, and either margin at its side, Whereon I straight perceiv’d our passage lay.

“Of all that I have shown thee, since that gate We enter’d first, whose threshold is to none Denied, nought else so worthy of regard, As is this river, has thine eye discern’d, O’er which the flaming volley all is quench’d.”

So spake my guide; and I him thence besought, That having giv’n me appetite to know, The food he too would give, that hunger crav’d.

“In midst of ocean,” forthwith he began, “A desolate country lies, which Crete is nam’d, Under whose monarch in old times the world Liv’d pure and chaste. A mountain rises there, Call’d Ida, joyous once with leaves and streams, Deserted now like a forbidden thing.

It was the spot which Rhea, Saturn’s spouse, Chose for the secret cradle of her son; And better to conceal him, drown’d in shouts His infant cries. Within the mount, upright An ancient form there stands and huge, that turns His shoulders towards Damiata, and at Rome As in his mirror looks. Of finest gold His head is shap’d, pure silver are the breast And arms; thence to the middle is of brass.

And downward all beneath well-temper’d steel, Save the right foot of potter’s clay, on which Than on the other more erect he stands, Each part except the gold, is rent throughout; And from the fissure tears distil, which join’d Penetrate to that cave. They in their course Thus far precipitated down the rock Form Acheron, and Styx, and Phlegethon; Then by this straiten’d channel passing hence Beneath, e’en to the lowest depth of all, Form there Cocytus, of whose lake (thyself Shall see it) I here give thee no account.”

Then I to him: “If from our world this sluice Be thus deriv’d; wherefore to us but now Appears it at this edge?” He straight replied: “The place, thou know’st, is round; and though great part Thou have already pass’d, still to the left Descending to the nethermost, not yet Hast thou the circuit made of the whole orb.

Wherefore if aught of new to us appear, It needs not bring up wonder in thy looks.”

Then I again inquir’d: “Where flow the streams Of Phlegethon and Lethe? for of one Thou tell’st not, and the other of that shower, Thou say’st, is form’d.” He answer thus return’d: “Doubtless thy questions all well pleas’d I hear.

Yet the red seething wave might have resolv’d One thou proposest. Lethe thou shalt see, But not within this hollow, in the place, Whither to lave themselves the spirits go, Whose blame hath been by penitence remov’d.”

He added: “Time is now we quit the wood.

Look thou my steps pursue: the margins give Safe passage, unimpeded by the flames; For over them all vapour is extinct.”

 

CANTO XV

 

One of the solid margins bears us now Envelop’d in the mist, that from the stream Arising, hovers o’er, and saves from fire Both piers and water. As the Flemings rear Their mound, ‘twixt Ghent and Bruges, to chase back The ocean, fearing his tumultuous tide That drives toward them, or the Paduans theirs Along the Brenta, to defend their towns And castles, ere the genial warmth be felt On Chiarentana’s top; such were the mounds, So fram’d, though not in height or bulk to these Made equal, by the master, whosoe’er He was, that rais’d them here. We from the wood Were not so far remov’d, that turning round I might not have discern’d it, when we met A troop of spirits, who came beside the pier.

They each one ey’d us, as at eventide One eyes another under a new moon, And toward us sharpen’d their sight as keen, As an old tailor at his needle’s eye.

Thus narrowly explor’d by all the tribe, I was agniz’d of one, who by the skirt Caught me, and cried, “What wonder have we here!”

And I, when he to me outstretch’d his arm, Intently fix’d my ken on his parch’d looks, That although smirch’d with fire, they hinder’d not But I remember’d him; and towards his face My hand inclining, answer’d: “Sir! Brunetto!

And art thou here?” He thus to me: “My son!

Oh let it not displease thee, if Brunetto Latini but a little space with thee Turn back, and leave his fellows to proceed.”

I thus to him replied: “Much as I can, I thereto pray thee; and if thou be willing, That I here seat me with thee, I consent; His leave, with whom I journey, first obtain’d.”

“O son!” said he, ” whoever of this throng One instant stops, lies then a hundred years, No fan to ventilate him, when the fire Smites sorest. Pass thou therefore on. I close Will at thy garments walk, and then rejoin My troop, who go mourning their endless doom.”

I dar’d not from the path descend to tread On equal ground with him, but held my head Bent down, as one who walks in reverent guise.

“What chance or destiny,” thus be began, “Ere the last day conducts thee here below?

And who is this, that shows to thee the way?”

“There up aloft,” I answer’d, “in the life Serene, I wander’d in a valley lost, Before mine age had to its fullness reach’d.

But yester-morn I left it: then once more Into that vale returning, him I met; And by this path homeward he leads me back.”

“If thou,” he answer’d, “follow but thy star, Thou canst not miss at last a glorious haven: Unless in fairer days my judgment err’d.

And if my fate so early had not chanc’d, Seeing the heav’ns thus bounteous to thee, I Had gladly giv’n thee comfort in thy work.

But that ungrateful and malignant race, Who in old times came down from Fesole, Ay and still smack of their rough mountain-flint, Will for thy good deeds shew thee enmity.

Nor wonder; for amongst ill-savour’d crabs It suits not the sweet fig-tree lay her fruit.

Old fame reports them in the world for blind, Covetous, envious, proud. Look to it well: Take heed thou cleanse thee of their ways. For thee Thy fortune hath such honour in reserve, That thou by either party shalt be crav’d With hunger keen: but be the fresh herb far From the goat’s tooth. The herd of Fesole May of themselves make litter, not touch the plant, If any such yet spring on their rank bed, In which the holy seed revives, transmitted From those true Romans, who still there remain’d, When it was made the nest of so much ill.”

“Were all my wish fulfill’d,” I straight replied, “Thou from the confines of man’s nature yet Hadst not been driven forth; for in my mind Is fix’d, and now strikes full upon my heart The dear, benign, paternal image, such As thine was, when so lately thou didst teach me The way for man to win eternity;

And how I priz’d the lesson, it behooves, That, long as life endures, my tongue should speak, What of my fate thou tell’st, that write I down: And with another text to comment on For her I keep it, the celestial dame, Who will know all, if I to her arrive.

This only would I have thee clearly note: That so my conscience have no plea against me; Do fortune as she list, I stand prepar’d.

Not new or strange such earnest to mine ear.

Speed fortune then her wheel, as likes her best, The clown his mattock; all things have their course.”

Thereat my sapient guide upon his right Turn’d himself back, then look’d at me and spake: “He listens to good purpose who takes note.”

I not the less still on my way proceed, Discoursing with Brunetto, and inquire Who are most known and chief among his tribe.

“To know of some is well;” thus he replied, “But of the rest silence may best beseem.

Time would not serve us for report so long.

In brief I tell thee, that all these were clerks, Men of great learning and no less renown, By one same sin polluted in the world.

With them is Priscian, and Accorso’s son Francesco herds among that wretched throng: And, if the wish of so impure a blotch Possess’d thee, him thou also might’st have seen, Who by the servants’ servant was transferr’d From Arno’s seat to Bacchiglione, where His ill-strain’d nerves he left. I more would add, But must from farther speech and onward way Alike desist, for yonder I behold

A mist new-risen on the sandy plain.

A company, with whom I may not sort, Approaches. I commend my TREASURE to thee, Wherein I yet survive; my sole request.”

This said he turn’d, and seem’d as one of those, Who o’er Verona’s champain try their speed For the green mantle, and of them he seem’d, Not he who loses but who gains the prize.

 

CANTO XVI

 

NOW came I where the water’s din was heard, As down it fell into the other round, Resounding like the hum of swarming bees: When forth together issu’d from a troop, That pass’d beneath the fierce tormenting storm, Three spirits, running swift. They towards us came, And each one cried aloud, “Oh do thou stay!

Whom by the fashion of thy garb we deem To be some inmate of our evil land.”

Ah me! what wounds I mark’d upon their limbs, Recent and old, inflicted by the flames!

E’en the remembrance of them grieves me yet.

Attentive to their cry my teacher paus’d, And turn’d to me his visage, and then spake; “Wait now! our courtesy these merit well: And were ‘t not for the nature of the place, Whence glide the fiery darts, I should have said, That haste had better suited thee than them.”

They, when we stopp’d, resum’d their ancient wail, And soon as they had reach’d us, all the three Whirl’d round together in one restless wheel.

As naked champions, smear’d with slippery oil, Are wont intent to watch their place of hold And vantage, ere in closer strife they meet; Thus each one, as he