Part 4

“Brother!” said he, “with tints that gayer smile, Bolognian Franco’s pencil lines the leaves. His all the honour now; mine borrow’d light. In truth I had not been thus courteous to him, The whilst I liv’d, through eagerness of zeal For that pre-eminence my heart was bent on. Here of such pride the forfeiture is paid. Nor were I even here; if, able still To sin, I had not turn’d me unto God. O powers of man! how vain your glory, nipp’d E’en in its height of verdure, if an age Less bright succeed not! Cimabue thought To lord it over painting’s field; and now The cry is Giotto’s, and his name eclips’d. Thus hath one Guido from the other snatch’d The letter’d prize: and he perhaps is born, Who shall drive either from their nest. The noise Of worldly fame is but a blast of wind, That blows from divers points, and shifts its name Shifting the point it blows from. Shalt thou more Live in the mouths of mankind, if thy flesh Part shrivel’d from thee, than if thou hadst died, Before the coral and the pap were left, Or ere some thousand years have passed? and that Is, to eternity compar’d, a space, Briefer than is the twinkling of an eye To the heaven’s slowest orb. He there who treads So leisurely before me, far and wide Through Tuscany resounded once; and now Is in Sienna scarce with whispers nam’d: There was he sov’reign, when destruction caught The madd’ning rage of Florence, in that day Proud as she now is loathsome. Your renown Is as the herb, whose hue doth come and go, And his might withers it, by whom it sprang Crude from the lap of earth.” I thus to him: “True are thy sayings: to my heart they breathe The kindly spirit of meekness, and allay What tumours rankle there. But who is he Of whom thou spak’st but now?”—“This,” he replied, “Is Provenzano. He is here, because He reach’d, with grasp presumptuous, at the sway Of all Sienna. Thus he still hath gone, Thus goeth never-resting, since he died. Such is th’ acquittance render’d back of him, Who, beyond measure, dar’d on earth.” I then: “If soul that to the verge of life delays Repentance, linger in that lower space, Nor hither mount, unless good prayers befriend, How chanc’d admittance was vouchsaf’d to him?”

“When at his glory’s topmost height,” said he, “Respect of dignity all cast aside, Freely He fix’d him on Sienna’s plain, A suitor to redeem his suff’ring friend, Who languish’d in the prison-house of Charles, Nor for his sake refus’d through every vein To tremble. More I will not say; and dark, I know, my words are, but thy neighbours soon Shall help thee to a comment on the text. This is the work, that from these limits freed him.”

## CANTO XII

With equal pace as oxen in the yoke, I with that laden spirit journey’d on Long as the mild instructor suffer’d me; But when he bade me quit him, and proceed (For “here,” said he, “behooves with sail and oars Each man, as best he may, push on his bark”), Upright, as one dispos’d for speed, I rais’d My body, still in thought submissive bow’d.

I now my leader’s track not loth pursued; And each had shown how light we far’d along When thus he warn’d me: “Bend thine eyesight down: For thou to ease the way shall find it good To ruminate the bed beneath thy feet.”

As in memorial of the buried, drawn Upon earth-level tombs, the sculptur’d form Of what was once, appears (at sight whereof Tears often stream forth by remembrance wak’d, Whose sacred stings the piteous only feel), So saw I there, but with more curious skill Of portraiture o’erwrought, whate’er of space From forth the mountain stretches. On one part Him I beheld, above all creatures erst Created noblest, light’ning fall from heaven: On th’ other side with bolt celestial pierc’d Briareus: cumb’ring earth he lay through dint Of mortal ice-stroke. The Thymbraean god With Mars, I saw, and Pallas, round their sire, Arm’d still, and gazing on the giant’s limbs Strewn o’er th’ ethereal field. Nimrod I saw: At foot of the stupendous work he stood, As if bewilder’d, looking on the crowd Leagued in his proud attempt on Sennaar’s plain.

O Niobe! in what a trance of woe Thee I beheld, upon that highway drawn, Sev’n sons on either side thee slain! O Saul! How ghastly didst thou look! on thine own sword Expiring in Gilboa, from that hour Ne’er visited with rain from heav’n or dew!

O fond Arachne! thee I also saw Half spider now in anguish crawling up Th’ unfinish’d web thou weaved’st to thy bane!

O Rehoboam! here thy shape doth seem Louring no more defiance! but fear-smote With none to chase him in his chariot whirl’d.

Was shown beside upon the solid floor How dear Alcmaeon forc’d his mother rate That ornament in evil hour receiv’d: How in the temple on Sennacherib fell His sons, and how a corpse they left him there. Was shown the scath and cruel mangling made By Tomyris on Cyrus, when she cried: “Blood thou didst thirst for, take thy fill of blood!” Was shown how routed in the battle fled Th’ Assyrians, Holofernes slain, and e’en The relics of the carnage. Troy I mark’d In ashes and in caverns. Oh! how fall’n, How abject, Ilion, was thy semblance there!

What master of the pencil or the style Had trac’d the shades and lines, that might have made The subtlest workman wonder? Dead the dead, The living seem’d alive; with clearer view His eye beheld not who beheld the truth, Than mine what I did tread on, while I went Low bending. Now swell out; and with stiff necks Pass on, ye sons of Eve! veil not your looks, Lest they descry the evil of your path!

I noted not (so busied was my thought) How much we now had circled of the mount, And of his course yet more the sun had spent, When he, who with still wakeful caution went, Admonish’d: “Raise thou up thy head: for know Time is not now for slow suspense. Behold That way an angel hasting towards us! Lo Where duly the sixth handmaid doth return From service on the day. Wear thou in look And gesture seemly grace of reverent awe, That gladly he may forward us aloft. Consider that this day ne’er dawns again.”

Time’s loss he had so often warn’d me ’gainst, I could not miss the scope at which he aim’d.

The goodly shape approach’d us, snowy white In vesture, and with visage casting streams Of tremulous lustre like the matin star. His arms he open’d, then his wings; and spake: “Onward: the steps, behold! are near; and now Th’ ascent is without difficulty gain’d.”

A scanty few are they, who when they hear Such tidings, hasten. O ye race of men Though born to soar, why suffer ye a wind So slight to baffle ye? He led us on Where the rock parted; here against my front Did beat his wings, then promis’d I should fare In safety on my way. As to ascend That steep, upon whose brow the chapel stands (O’er Rubaconte, looking lordly down On the well-guided city,) up the right Th’ impetuous rise is broken by the steps Carv’d in that old and simple age, when still The registry and label rested safe; Thus is th’ acclivity reliev’d, which here Precipitous from the other circuit falls: But on each hand the tall cliff presses close.

As ent’ring there we turn’d, voices, in strain Ineffable, sang: “Blessed are the poor In spirit.” Ah how far unlike to these The straits of hell; here songs to usher us, There shrieks of woe! We climb the holy stairs: And lighter to myself by far I seem’d Than on the plain before, whence thus I spake: “Say, master, of what heavy thing have I Been lighten’d, that scarce aught the sense of toil Affects me journeying?” He in few replied: “When sin’s broad characters, that yet remain Upon thy temples, though well nigh effac’d, Shall be, as one is, all clean razed out, Then shall thy feet by heartiness of will Be so o’ercome, they not alone shall feel No sense of labour, but delight much more Shall wait them urg’d along their upward way.”

Then like to one, upon whose head is plac’d Somewhat he deems not of but from the becks Of others as they pass him by; his hand Lends therefore help to’ assure him, searches, finds, And well performs such office as the eye Wants power to execute: so stretching forth The fingers of my right hand, did I find Six only of the letters, which his sword Who bare the keys had trac’d upon my brow. The leader, as he mark’d mine action, smil’d.

## CANTO XIII

We reach’d the summit of the scale, and stood Upon the second buttress of that mount Which healeth him who climbs. A cornice there, Like to the former, girdles round the hill; Save that its arch with sweep less ample bends.

Shadow nor image there is seen; all smooth The rampart and the path, reflecting nought But the rock’s sullen hue. “If here we wait For some to question,” said the bard, “I fear Our choice may haply meet too long delay.”

Then fixedly upon the sun his eyes He fastn’d, made his right the central point From whence to move, and turn’d the left aside. “O pleasant light, my confidence and hope, Conduct us thou,” he cried, “on this new way, Where now I venture, leading to the bourn We seek. The universal world to thee Owes warmth and lustre. If no other cause Forbid, thy beams should ever be our guide.”

Far, as is measur’d for a mile on earth, In brief space had we journey’d; such prompt will Impell’d; and towards us flying, now were heard Spirits invisible, who courteously Unto love’s table bade the welcome guest. The voice, that first? flew by, call’d forth aloud, “They have no wine;” so on behind us past, Those sounds reiterating, nor yet lost In the faint distance, when another came Crying, “I am Orestes,” and alike Wing’d its fleet way. “Oh father!” I exclaim’d, “What tongues are these?” and as I question’d, lo! A third exclaiming, “Love ye those have wrong’d you.”

“This circuit,” said my teacher, “knots the scourge For envy, and the cords are therefore drawn By charity’s correcting hand. The curb Is of a harsher sound, as thou shalt hear (If I deem rightly), ere thou reach the pass, Where pardon sets them free. But fix thine eyes Intently through the air, and thou shalt see A multitude before thee seated, each Along the shelving grot.” Then more than erst I op’d my eyes, before me view’d, and saw Shadows with garments dark as was the rock; And when we pass’d a little forth, I heard A crying, “Blessed Mary! pray for us, Michael and Peter! all ye saintly host!”

I do not think there walks on earth this day Man so remorseless, that he hath not yearn’d With pity at the sight that next I saw. Mine eyes a load of sorrow teemed, when now I stood so near them, that their semblances Came clearly to my view. Of sackcloth vile Their cov’ring seem’d; and on his shoulder one Did stay another, leaning, and all lean’d Against the cliff. E’en thus the blind and poor, Near the confessionals, to crave an alms, Stand, each his head upon his fellow’s sunk,

So most to stir compassion, not by sound Of words alone, but that, which moves not less, The sight of mis’ry. And as never beam Of noonday visiteth the eyeless man, E’en so was heav’n a niggard unto these Of his fair light; for, through the orbs of all, A thread of wire, impiercing, knits them up, As for the taming of a haggard hawk.

It were a wrong, methought, to pass and look On others, yet myself the while unseen. To my sage counsel therefore did I turn. He knew the meaning of the mute appeal, Nor waited for my questioning, but said: “Speak; and be brief, be subtle in thy words.”

On that part of the cornice, whence no rim Engarlands its steep fall, did Virgil come; On the’ other side me were the spirits, their cheeks Bathing devout with penitential tears, That through the dread impalement forc’d a way.

I turn’d me to them, and “O shades!” said I,

“Assur’d that to your eyes unveil’d shall shine The lofty light, sole object of your wish, So may heaven’s grace clear whatsoe’er of foam Floats turbid on the conscience, that thenceforth The stream of mind roll limpid from its source, As ye declare (for so shall ye impart A boon I dearly prize) if any soul Of Latium dwell among ye; and perchance That soul may profit, if I learn so much.”

“My brother, we are each one citizens Of one true city. Any thou wouldst say, Who lived a stranger in Italia’s land.”

So heard I answering, as appeal’d, a voice That onward came some space from whence I stood.

A spirit I noted, in whose look was mark’d Expectance. Ask ye how? The chin was rais’d As in one reft of sight. “Spirit,” said I, “Who for thy rise are tutoring (if thou be That which didst answer to me,) or by place Or name, disclose thyself, that I may know thee.”

“I was,” it answer’d, “of Sienna: here I cleanse away with these the evil life, Soliciting with tears that He, who is, Vouchsafe him to us. Though Sapia nam’d In sapience I excell’d not, gladder far Of others’ hurt, than of the good befell me. That thou mayst own I now deceive thee not, Hear, if my folly were not as I speak it. When now my years slop’d waning down the arch, It so bechanc’d, my fellow citizens Near Colle met their enemies in the field, And I pray’d God to grant what He had will’d. There were they vanquish’d, and betook themselves Unto the bitter passages of flight. I mark’d the hunt, and waxing out of bounds In gladness, lifted up my shameless brow, And like the merlin cheated by a gleam, Cried, “It is over. Heav’n! I fear thee not.” Upon my verge of life I wish’d for peace With God; nor repentance had supplied What I did lack of duty, were it not The hermit Piero, touch’d with charity, In his devout orisons thought on me. “But who art thou that question’st of our state, Who go’st to my belief, with lids unclos’d, And breathest in thy talk?”—“Mine eyes,” said I, “May yet be here ta’en from me; but not long; For they have not offended grievously With envious glances. But the woe beneath Urges my soul with more exceeding dread. That nether load already weighs me down.”

She thus: “Who then amongst us here aloft Hath brought thee, if thou weenest to return?

“He,” answer’d I, “who standeth mute beside me. I live: of me ask therefore, chosen spirit, If thou desire I yonder yet should move For thee my mortal feet.”—“Oh!” she replied, “This is so strange a thing, it is great sign That God doth love thee. Therefore with thy prayer Sometime assist me: and by that I crave, Which most thou covetest, that if thy feet E’er tread on Tuscan soil, thou save my fame Amongst my kindred. Them shalt thou behold With that vain multitude, who set their hope On Telamone’s haven, there to fail Confounded, more shall when the fancied stream They sought of Dian call’d: but they who lead Their navies, more than ruin’d hopes shall mourn.”

## CANTO XIV

“Say who is he around our mountain winds, Or ever death has prun’d his wing for flight, That opes his eyes and covers them at will?”

“I know not who he is, but know thus much He comes not singly. Do thou ask of him, For thou art nearer to him, and take heed Accost him gently, so that he may speak.”

Thus on the right two Spirits bending each Toward the other, talk’d of me, then both Addressing me, their faces backward lean’d, And thus the one began: “O soul, who yet Pent in the body, tendest towards the sky! For charity, we pray thee’ comfort us, Recounting whence thou com’st, and who thou art: For thou dost make us at the favour shown thee Marvel, as at a thing that ne’er hath been.”

“There stretches through the midst of Tuscany,” I straight began: “a brooklet, whose well-head Springs up in Falterona, with his race Not satisfied, when he some hundred miles Hath measur’d. From his banks bring, I this frame. To tell you who I am were words misspent: For yet my name scarce sounds on rumour’s lip.”

“If well I do incorp’rate with my thought The meaning of thy speech,” said he, who first Addrest me, “thou dost speak of Arno’s wave.”

To whom the other: “Why hath he conceal’d The title of that river, as a man Doth of some horrible thing?” The spirit, who Thereof was question’d, did acquit him thus: “I know not: but ’tis fitting well the name Should perish of that vale; for from the source Where teems so plenteously the Alpine steep Maim’d of Pelorus, (that doth scarcely pass Beyond that limit,) even to the point Whereunto ocean is restor’d, what heaven Drains from th’ exhaustless store for all earth’s streams, Throughout the space is virtue worried down, As ’twere a snake, by all, for mortal foe, Or through disastrous influence on the place, Or else distortion of misguided wills, That custom goads to evil: whence in those, The dwellers in that miserable vale, Nature is so transform’d, it seems as they Had shar’d of Circe’s feeding. ’Midst brute swine, Worthier of acorns than of other food Created for man’s use, he shapeth first His obscure way; then, sloping onward, finds Curs, snarlers more in spite than power, from whom He turns with scorn aside: still journeying down, By how much more the curst and luckless foss Swells out to largeness, e’en so much it finds Dogs turning into wolves. Descending still Through yet more hollow eddies, next he meets A race of foxes, so replete with craft, They do not fear that skill can master it. Nor will I cease because my words are heard By other ears than thine. It shall be well For this man, if he keep in memory What from no erring Spirit I reveal. Lo! I behold thy grandson, that becomes A hunter of those wolves, upon the shore Of the fierce stream, and cows them all with dread: Their flesh yet living sets he up to sale, Then like an aged beast to slaughter dooms. Many of life he reaves, himself of worth And goodly estimation. Smear’d with gore Mark how he issues from the rueful wood, Leaving such havoc, that in thousand years It spreads not to prime lustihood again.”

As one, who tidings hears of woe to come, Changes his looks perturb’d, from whate’er part The peril grasp him, so beheld I change That spirit, who had turn’d to listen, struck With sadness, soon as he had caught the word.

His visage and the other’s speech did raise Desire in me to know the names of both, whereof with meek entreaty I inquir’d.

The shade, who late addrest me, thus resum’d: “Thy wish imports that I vouchsafe to do For thy sake what thou wilt not do for mine. But since God’s will is that so largely shine His grace in thee, I will be liberal too. Guido of Duca know then that I am. Envy so parch’d my blood, that had I seen A fellow man made joyous, thou hadst mark’d A livid paleness overspread my cheek. Such harvest reap I of the seed I sow’d. O man, why place thy heart where there doth need Exclusion of participants in good? This is Rinieri’s spirit, this the boast And honour of the house of Calboli, Where of his worth no heritage remains. Nor his the only blood, that hath been stript (’twixt Po, the mount, the Reno, and the shore,) Of all that truth or fancy asks for bliss; But in those limits such a growth has sprung Of rank and venom’d roots, as long would mock Slow culture’s toil. Where is good Lizio? where Manardi, Traversalo, and Carpigna? O bastard slips of old Romagna’s line! When in Bologna the low artisan, And in Faenza yon Bernardin sprouts, A gentle cyon from ignoble stem. Wonder not, Tuscan, if thou see me weep, When I recall to mind those once lov’d names, Guido of Prata, and of Azzo him That dwelt with you; Tignoso and his troop, With Traversaro’s house and Anastagio’s, (Each race disherited) and beside these, The ladies and the knights, the toils and ease, That witch’d us into love and courtesy; Where now such malice reigns in recreant hearts. O Brettinoro! wherefore tarriest still, Since forth of thee thy family hath gone, And many, hating evil, join’d their steps? Well doeth he, that bids his lineage cease, Bagnacavallo; Castracaro ill, And Conio worse, who care to propagate A race of Counties from such blood as theirs. Well shall ye also do, Pagani, then When from amongst you tries your demon child. Not so, howe’er, that henceforth there remain True proof of what ye were. O Hugolin! Thou sprung of Fantolini’s line! thy name Is safe, since none is look’d for after thee To cloud its lustre, warping from thy stock. But, Tuscan, go thy ways; for now I take Far more delight in weeping than in words. Such pity for your sakes hath wrung my heart.”

We knew those gentle spirits at parting heard Our steps. Their silence therefore of our way Assur’d us. Soon as we had quitted them, Advancing onward, lo! a voice that seem’d Like vollied light’ning, when it rives the air, Met us, and shouted, “Whosoever finds Will slay me,” then fled from us, as the bolt Lanc’d sudden from a downward-rushing cloud. When it had giv’n short truce unto our hearing, Behold the other with a crash as loud As the quick-following thunder: “Mark in me Aglauros turn’d to rock.” I at the sound Retreating drew more closely to my guide.

Now in mute stillness rested all the air: And thus he spake: “There was the galling bit. But your old enemy so baits his hook, He drags you eager to him. Hence nor curb Avails you, nor reclaiming call. Heav’n calls And round about you wheeling courts your gaze With everlasting beauties. Yet your eye Turns with fond doting still upon the earth. Therefore He smites you who discerneth all.”

## CANTO XV

As much as ’twixt the third hour’s close and dawn, Appeareth of heav’n’s sphere, that ever whirls As restless as an infant in his play, So much appear’d remaining to the sun Of his slope journey towards the western goal.