The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri (essential books to read TXT) 📕

He Loderingo nam’d, and by thy land Together taken, as men used to take A single and indifferent arbiter,

To reconcile their strifes. How there we sped, Gardingo’s vicinage can best declare.”

“O friars!” I began, “your miseries—”

But there brake off, for one had caught my eye, Fix’d to a cross with three stakes on the ground: He, when he saw me, writh’d himself, throughout Distorted, ruffling with deep sighs his beard.

And Catalano, who thereof was ‘ware, Thus spake: “That pierced spirit, whom intent Thou view’st, was he who gave the Pharisees Counsel, that it were fitting for one man To suffer for the people. He doth lie Transverse; nor any passes, but him first Behoves make feeling trial how each weighs.

In straits like this along the foss are plac’d The father of his consort, and the rest Partakers in that council, seed of ill And sorrow to the Jews.” I noted then, How Virgil gaz’d with wonder upon him, Thus abjectly extended on the cross In banishment eternal. To the friar He next his words address’d: “We pray ye tell, If so be lawful, whether on our right Lies any opening in the rock, whereby We both may issue hence, without constraint On the dark angels, that compell’d they come To lead us from this depth.” He thus replied: “Nearer than thou dost hope, there is a rock From the next circle moving, which o’ersteps Each vale of horror, save that here his cope Is shatter’d. By the ruin ye may mount: For on the side it slants, and most the height Rises below.” With head bent down awhile My leader stood, then spake: “He warn’d us ill, Who yonder hangs the sinners on his hook.”

To whom the friar: At Bologna erst I many vices of the devil heard,

Among the rest was said, ‘He is a liar, And the father of lies!’” When he had spoke, My leader with large strides proceeded on, Somewhat disturb’d with anger in his look.

I therefore left the spirits heavy laden, And following, his beloved footsteps mark’d.

CANTO XXIV

IN the year’s early nonage, when the sun Tempers his tresses in Aquarius’ urn, And now towards equal day the nights recede, When as the rime upon the earth puts on Her dazzling sister’s image, but not long Her milder sway endures, then riseth up The village hind, whom fails his wintry store, And looking out beholds the plain around All whiten’d, whence impatiently he smites His thighs, and to his hut returning in, There paces to and fro, wailing his lot, As a discomfited and helpless man; Then comes he forth again, and feels new hope Spring in his bosom, finding e’en thus soon The world hath chang’d its count’nance, grasps his crook, And forth to pasture drives his little flock: So me my guide dishearten’d when I saw His troubled forehead, and so speedily That ill was cur’d; for at the fallen bridge Arriving, towards me with a look as sweet, He turn’d him back, as that I first beheld At the steep mountain’s foot. Regarding well The ruin, and some counsel first maintain’d With his own thought, he open’d wide his arm And took me up. As one, who, while he works, Computes his labour’s issue, that he seems Still to foresee the’ effect, so lifting me Up to the summit of one peak, he fix’d His eye upon another. “Grapple that,”

Said he, “but first make proof, if it be such As will sustain thee.” For one capp’d with lead This were no journey. Scarcely he, though light, And I, though onward push’d from crag to crag, Could mount. And if the precinct of this coast Were not less ample than the last, for him I know not, but my strength had surely fail’d.

But Malebolge all toward the mouth Inclining of the nethermost abyss, The site of every valley hence requires, That one side upward slope, the other fall.

At length the point of our descent we reach’d From the last flag: soon as to that arriv’d, So was the breath exhausted from my lungs, I could no further, but did seat me there.

“Now needs thy best of man;” so spake my guide: “For not on downy plumes, nor under shade Of canopy reposing, fame is won,

Without which whosoe’er consumes his days Leaveth such vestige of himself on earth, As smoke in air or foam upon the wave.

Thou therefore rise: vanish thy weariness By the mind’s effort, in each struggle form’d To vanquish, if she suffer not the weight Of her corporeal frame to crush her down.

A longer ladder yet remains to scale.

From these to have escap’d sufficeth not.

If well thou note me, profit by my words.”

I straightway rose, and show’d myself less spent Than I in truth did feel me. “On,” I cried, “For I am stout and fearless.” Up the rock Our way we held, more rugged than before, Narrower and steeper far to climb. From talk I ceas’d not, as we journey’d, so to seem Least faint; whereat a voice from the other foss Did issue forth, for utt’rance suited ill.

Though on the arch that crosses there I stood, What were the words I knew not, but who spake Seem’d mov’d in anger. Down I stoop’d to look, But my quick eye might reach not to the depth For shrouding darkness; wherefore thus I spake: “To the next circle, Teacher, bend thy steps, And from the wall dismount we; for as hence I hear and understand not, so I see Beneath, and naught discern.”—“I answer not,”

Said he, “but by the deed. To fair request Silent performance maketh best return.”

We from the bridge’s head descended, where To the eighth mound it joins, and then the chasm Opening to view, I saw a crowd within Of serpents terrible, so strange of shape And hideous, that remembrance in my veins Yet shrinks the vital current. Of her sands Let Lybia vaunt no more: if Jaculus, Pareas and Chelyder be her brood,

Cenchris and Amphisboena, plagues so dire Or in such numbers swarming ne’er she shew’d, Not with all Ethiopia, and whate’er Above the Erythraean sea is spawn’d.

Amid this dread exuberance of woe Ran naked spirits wing’d with horrid fear, Nor hope had they of crevice where to hide, Or heliotrope to charm them out of view.

With serpents were their hands behind them bound, Which through their reins infix’d the tail and head Twisted in folds before. And lo! on one Near to our side, darted an adder up, And, where the neck is on the shoulders tied, Transpierc’d him. Far more quickly than e’er pen Wrote O or I, he kindled, burn’d, and chang’d To ashes, all pour’d out upon the earth.

When there dissolv’d he lay, the dust again Uproll’d spontaneous, and the self-same form Instant resumed. So mighty sages tell, The’ Arabian Phoenix, when five hundred years Have well nigh circled, dies, and springs forthwith Renascent. Blade nor herb throughout his life He tastes, but tears of frankincense alone And odorous amomum: swaths of nard And myrrh his funeral shroud. As one that falls, He knows not how, by force demoniac dragg’d To earth, or through obstruction fettering up In chains invisible the powers of man, Who, risen from his trance, gazeth around, Bewilder’d with the monstrous agony He hath endur’d, and wildly staring sighs; So stood aghast the sinner when he rose.

Oh! how severe God’s judgment, that deals out Such blows in stormy vengeance! Who he was My teacher next inquir’d, and thus in few He answer’d: “Vanni Fucci am I call’d, Not long since rained down from Tuscany To this dire gullet. Me the beastial life And not the human pleas’d, mule that I was, Who in Pistoia found my worthy den.”

I then to Virgil: “Bid him stir not hence, And ask what crime did thrust him hither: once A man I knew him choleric and bloody.”

The sinner heard and feign’d not, but towards me His mind directing and his face, wherein Was dismal shame depictur’d, thus he spake: “It grieves me more to have been caught by thee In this sad plight, which thou beholdest, than When I was taken from the other life.

I have no power permitted to deny

What thou inquirest.” I am doom’d thus low To dwell, for that the sacristy by me Was rifled of its goodly ornaments, And with the guilt another falsely charged.

But that thou mayst not joy to see me thus, So as thou e’er shalt ‘scape this darksome realm Open thine ears and hear what I forebode.

Reft of the Neri first Pistoia pines, Then Florence changeth citizens and laws.

From Valdimagra, drawn by wrathful Mars, A vapour rises, wrapt in turbid mists, And sharp and eager driveth on the storm With arrowy hurtling o’er Piceno’s field, Whence suddenly the cloud shall burst, and strike Each helpless Bianco prostrate to the ground.

This have I told, that grief may rend thy heart.”

CANTO XXV

WHEN he had spoke, the sinner rais’d his hands Pointed in mockery, and cried: “Take them, God!

I level them at thee!” From that day forth The serpents were my friends; for round his neck One of then rolling twisted, as it said, “Be silent, tongue!” Another to his arms Upgliding, tied them, riveting itself So close, it took from them the power to move.

Pistoia! Ah Pistoia! why dost doubt To turn thee into ashes, cumb’ring earth No longer, since in evil act so far Thou hast outdone thy seed? I did not mark, Through all the gloomy circles of the’ abyss, Spirit, that swell’d so proudly ‘gainst his God, Not him, who headlong fell from Thebes. He fled, Nor utter’d more; and after him there came A centaur full of fury, shouting, “Where Where is the caitiff?” On Maremma’s marsh Swarm not the serpent tribe, as on his haunch They swarm’d, to where the human face begins.

Behind his head upon the shoulders lay, With open wings, a dragon breathing fire On whomsoe’er he met. To me my guide: “Cacus is this, who underneath the rock Of Aventine spread oft a lake of blood.

He, from his brethren parted, here must tread A different journey, for his fraudful theft Of the great herd, that near him stall’d; whence found His felon deeds their end, beneath the mace Of stout Alcides, that perchance laid on A hundred blows, and not the tenth was felt.”

While yet he spake, the centaur sped away: And under us three spirits came, of whom Nor I nor he was ware, till they exclaim’d; “Say who are ye?” We then brake off discourse, Intent on these alone. I knew them not; But, as it chanceth oft, befell, that one Had need to name another. “Where,” said he, “Doth Cianfa lurk?” I, for a sign my guide Should stand attentive, plac’d against my lips The finger lifted. If, O reader! now Thou be not apt to credit what I tell, No marvel; for myself do scarce allow The witness of mine eyes. But as I looked Toward them, lo! a serpent with six feet Springs forth on one, and fastens full upon him: His midmost grasp’d the belly, a forefoot Seiz’d on each arm (while deep in either cheek He flesh’d his fangs); the hinder on the thighs Were spread, ‘twixt which the tail inserted curl’d Upon the reins behind. Ivy ne’er clasp’d A dodder’d oak, as round the other’s limbs The hideous monster intertwin’d his own.

Then, as they both had been of burning wax, Each melted into other, mingling hues, That which was either now was seen no more.

Thus up the shrinking paper, ere it burns, A brown tint glides, not turning yet to