Part 13
The concubine of old Tithonus now Gleamed white upon the eastern balcony, Forth from the arms of her sweet paramour;
With gems her forehead all relucent was, Set in the shape of that cold animal Which with its tail doth smite amain the nations,
And of the steps, with which she mounts, the Night Had taken two in that place where we were, And now the third was bending down its wings;
When I, who something had of Adam in me, Vanquished by sleep, upon the grass reclined, There were all five of us already sat.
Just at the hour when her sad lay begins The little swallow, near unto the morning, Perchance in memory of her former woes,
And when the mind of man, a wanderer More from the flesh, and less by thought imprisoned, Almost prophetic in its visions is,
In dreams it seemed to me I saw suspended An eagle in the sky, with plumes of gold, With wings wide open, and intent to stoop,
And this, it seemed to me, was where had been By Ganymede his kith and kin abandoned, When to the high consistory he was rapt.
I thought within myself, perchance he strikes From habit only here, and from elsewhere Disdains to bear up any in his feet.
Then wheeling somewhat more, it seemed to me, Terrible as the lightning he descended, And snatched me upward even to the fire.
Therein it seemed that he and I were burning, And the imagined fire did scorch me so, That of necessity my sleep was broken.
Not otherwise Achilles started up, Around him turning his awakened eyes, And knowing not the place in which he was,
What time from Chiron stealthily his mother Carried him sleeping in her arms to Scyros, Wherefrom the Greeks withdrew him afterwards,
Than I upstarted, when from off my face Sleep fled away; and pallid I became, As doth the man who freezes with affright.
Only my Comforter was at my side, And now the sun was more than two hours high, And turned towards the sea-shore was my face.
“Be not intimidated,” said my Lord, “Be reassured, for all is well with us; Do not restrain, but put forth all thy strength.
Thou hast at length arrived at Purgatory; See there the cliff that closes it around; See there the entrance, where it seems disjoined.
Whilom at dawn, which doth precede the day, When inwardly thy spirit was asleep Upon the flowers that deck the land below,
There came a Lady and said: ‘I am Lucia; Let me take this one up, who is asleep; So will I make his journey easier for him.’
Sordello and the other noble shapes Remained; she took thee, and, as day grew bright, Upward she came, and I upon her footsteps.
She laid thee here; and first her beauteous eyes That open entrance pointed out to me; Then she and sleep together went away.”
In guise of one whose doubts are reassured, And who to confidence his fear doth change, After the truth has been discovered to him,
So did I change; and when without disquiet My Leader saw me, up along the cliff He moved, and I behind him, tow’rd the height.
Reader, thou seest well how I exalt My theme, and therefore if with greater art I fortify it, marvel not thereat.
Nearer approached we, and were in such place, That there, where first appeared to me a rift Like to a crevice that disparts a wall,
I saw a portal, and three stairs beneath, Diverse in colour, to go up to it, And a gate-keeper, who yet spake no word.
And as I opened more and more mine eyes, I saw him seated on the highest stair, Such in the face that I endured it not.
And in his hand he had a naked sword, Which so reflected back the sunbeams tow’rds us, That oft in vain I lifted up mine eyes.
“Tell it from where you are, what is’t you wish?” Began he to exclaim; “where is the escort? Take heed your coming hither harm you not!”
“A Lady of Heaven, with these things conversant,” My Master answered him, “but even now Said to us, ‘Thither go; there is the portal.’”
“And may she speed your footsteps in all good,” Again began the courteous janitor; “Come forward then unto these stairs of ours.”
Thither did we approach; and the first stair Was marble white, so polished and so smooth, I mirrored myself therein as I appear.
The second, tinct of deeper hue than perse, Was of a calcined and uneven stone, Cracked all asunder lengthwise and across.
The third, that uppermost rests massively, Porphyry seemed to me, as flaming red As blood that from a vein is spirting forth.
Both of his feet was holding upon this The Angel of God, upon the threshold seated, Which seemed to me a stone of diamond.
Along the three stairs upward with good will Did my Conductor draw me, saying: “Ask Humbly that he the fastening may undo.”
Devoutly at the holy feet I cast me, For mercy’s sake besought that he would open, But first upon my breast three times I smote.
Seven P’s upon my forehead he described With the sword’s point, and, “Take heed that thou wash These wounds, when thou shalt be within,” he said.
Ashes, or earth that dry is excavated, Of the same colour were with his attire, And from beneath it he drew forth two keys.
One was of gold, and the other was of silver; First with the white, and after with the yellow, Plied he the door, so that I was content.
“Whenever faileth either of these keys So that it turn not rightly in the lock,” He said to us, “this entrance doth not open.
More precious one is, but the other needs More art and intellect ere it unlock, For it is that which doth the knot unloose.
From Peter I have them; and he bade me err Rather in opening than in keeping shut, If people but fall down before my feet.”
Then pushed the portals of the sacred door, Exclaiming: “Enter; but I give you warning That forth returns whoever looks behind.”
And when upon their hinges were turned round The swivels of that consecrated gate, Which are of metal, massive and sonorous,
Roared not so loud, nor so discordant seemed Tarpeia, when was ta’en from it the good Metellus, wherefore meagre it remained.
At the first thunder-peal I turned attentive, And “Te Deum laudamus” seemed to hear In voices mingled with sweet melody.
Exactly such an image rendered me That which I heard, as we are wont to catch, When people singing with the organ stand;
For now we hear, and now hear not, the words.
Purgatorio: Canto X
When we had crossed the threshold of the door Which the perverted love of souls disuses, Because it makes the crooked way seem straight,
Re-echoing I heard it closed again; And if I had turned back mine eyes upon it, What for my failing had been fit excuse?
We mounted upward through a rifted rock, Which undulated to this side and that, Even as a wave receding and advancing.
“Here it behoves us use a little art,” Began my Leader, “to adapt ourselves Now here, now there, to the receding side.”
And this our footsteps so infrequent made, That sooner had the moon’s decreasing disk Regained its bed to sink again to rest,
Than we were forth from out that needle’s eye; But when we free and in the open were, There where the mountain backward piles itself,
I wearied out, and both of us uncertain About our way, we stopped upon a plain More desolate than roads across the deserts.
From where its margin borders on the void, To foot of the high bank that ever rises, A human body three times told would measure;
And far as eye of mine could wing its flight, Now on the left, and on the right flank now, The same this cornice did appear to me.
Thereon our feet had not been moved as yet, When I perceived the embankment round about, Which all right of ascent had interdicted,
To be of marble white, and so adorned With sculptures, that not only Polycletus, But Nature’s self, had there been put to shame.
The Angel, who came down to earth with tidings Of peace, that had been wept for many a year, And opened Heaven from its long interdict,
In front of us appeared so truthfully There sculptured in a gracious attitude, He did not seem an image that is silent.
One would have sworn that he was saying, “Ave;” For she was there in effigy portrayed Who turned the key to ope the exalted love,
And in her mien this language had impressed, “Ecce ancilla Dei,” as distinctly As any figure stamps itself in wax.
“Keep not thy mind upon one place alone,” The gentle Master said, who had me standing Upon that side where people have their hearts;
Whereat I moved mine eyes, and I beheld In rear of Mary, and upon that side Where he was standing who conducted me,
Another story on the rock imposed; Wherefore I passed Virgilius and drew near, So that before mine eyes it might be set.
There sculptured in the self-same marble were The cart and oxen, drawing the holy ark, Wherefore one dreads an office not appointed.
People appeared in front, and all of them In seven choirs divided, of two senses Made one say “No,” the other, “Yes, they sing.”
Likewise unto the smoke of the frankincense, Which there was imaged forth, the eyes and nose Were in the yes and no discordant made.
Preceded there the vessel benedight, Dancing with girded loins, the humble Psalmist, And more and less than King was he in this.
Opposite, represented at the window Of a great palace, Michal looked upon him, Even as a woman scornful and afflicted.
I moved my feet from where I had been standing, To examine near at hand another story, Which after Michal glimmered white upon me.
There the high glory of the Roman Prince Was chronicled, whose great beneficence Moved Gregory to his great victory;
’Tis of the Emperor Trajan I am speaking; And a poor widow at his bridle stood, In attitude of weeping and of grief.
Around about him seemed it thronged and full Of cavaliers, and the eagles in the gold Above them visibly in the wind were moving.
The wretched woman in the midst of these Seemed to be saying: “Give me vengeance, Lord, For my dead son, for whom my heart is breaking.”
And he to answer her: “Now wait until I shall return.” And she: “My Lord,” like one In whom grief is impatient, “shouldst thou not
Return?” And he: “Who shall be where I am Will give it thee.” And she: “Good deed of others What boots it thee, if thou neglect thine own?”
Whence he: “Now comfort thee, for it behoves me That I discharge my duty ere I move; Justice so wills, and pity doth retain me.”
He who on no new thing has ever looked Was the creator of this visible language, Novel to us, for here it is not found.
While I delighted me in contemplating The images of such humility, And dear to look on for their Maker’s sake,
“Behold, upon this side, but rare they make Their steps,” the Poet murmured, “many people; These will direct us to the lofty stairs.”
Mine eyes, that in beholding were intent To see new things, of which they curious are, In turning round towards him were not slow.
But still I wish not, Reader, thou shouldst swerve From thy good purposes, because thou hearest How God ordaineth that the debt be paid;
Attend not to the fashion of the torment, Think of what follows; think that at the worst It cannot reach beyond the mighty sentence.
“Master,” began I, “that which I behold Moving towards us seems to me not persons, And what I know not, so in sight I waver.”
And he to me: “The grievous quality Of this their torment bows them so to earth, That my own eyes at first contended with it;
But look there fixedly, and disentangle By sight what cometh underneath those stones; Already canst thou see how each is stricken.”
O ye proud Christians! wretched, weary ones! Who, in the vision of the mind infirm Confidence have in your backsliding steps,
Do ye not comprehend that we are worms, Born to bring forth the angelic butterfly That flieth unto judgment without screen?
Why floats aloft your spirit high in air? Like are ye unto insects undeveloped, Even as the worm in whom formation fails!
As to sustain a ceiling or a roof, In place of corbel, oftentimes a figure Is seen to join its knees unto its breast,
Which makes of the unreal real anguish Arise in him who sees it, fashioned thus Beheld I those, when I had ta’en good heed.
True is it, they were more or less bent down, According as they more or less were laden; And he who had most patience in his looks
Weeping did seem to say, “I can no more!”
Purgatorio: Canto XI
“Our Father, thou who dwellest in the heavens, Not circumscribed, but from the greater love Thou bearest to the first effects on high,
Praised be thy name and thine omnipotence By every creature, as befitting is To render thanks to thy sweet effluence.
Come unto us the peace of thy dominion, For unto it we cannot of ourselves, If it come not, with all our intellect.
Even as thine own Angels of their will Make sacrifice to thee, Hosanna singing, So may all men make sacrifice of theirs.
Give unto us this day our daily manna, Withouten which in this rough wilderness Backward goes he who toils most to advance.
And even as we the trespass we have suffered Pardon in one another, pardon thou Benignly, and regard not our desert.
Our virtue, which is easily o’ercome, Put not to proof with the old Adversary, But thou from him who spurs it so, deliver.
This last petition verily, dear Lord, Not for ourselves is made, who need it not, But for their sake who have remained behind us.”
Thus for themselves and us good furtherance Those shades imploring, went beneath a weight Like unto that of which we sometimes dream,
Unequally in anguish round and round And weary all, upon that foremost cornice, Purging away the smoke-stains of the world.
If there good words are always said for us, What may not here be said and done for them, By those who have a good root to their will?
Well may we help them wash away the marks That hence they carried, so that clean and light They may ascend unto the starry wheels!
“Ah! so may pity and justice you disburden Soon, that ye may have power to move the wing, That shall uplift you after your desire,
Show us on which hand tow’rd the stairs the way Is shortest, and if more than one the passes, Point us out that which least abruptly falls;
For he who cometh with me, through the burden Of Adam’s flesh wherewith he is invested, Against his will is chary of his climbing.”
The words of theirs which they returned to those That he whom I was following had spoken, It was not manifest from whom they came,
But it was said: “To the right hand come with us Along the bank, and ye shall find a pass Possible for living person to ascend.
And were I not impeded by the stone, Which this proud neck of mine doth subjugate, Whence I am forced to hold my visage down,
Him, who still lives and does not name himself, Would I regard, to see if I may know him And make him piteous unto this burden.
A Latian was I, and born of a great Tuscan; Guglielmo Aldobrandeschi was my father; I know not if his name were ever with you.
The ancient blood and deeds of gallantry Of my progenitors so arrogant made me That, thinking not upon the common mother,
All men I held in scorn to such extent I died therefor, as know the Sienese, And every child in Campagnatico.
I am Omberto; and not to me alone Has pride done harm, but all my kith and kin Has with it dragged into adversity.
And here must I this burden bear for it Till God be satisfied, since I did not Among the living, here among the dead.”
Listening I downward bent my countenance; And one of them, not this one who was speaking, Twisted himself beneath the weight that cramps him,
And looked at me, and knew me, and called out, Keeping his eyes laboriously fixed On me, who all bowed down was going with them.
“O,” asked I him, “art thou not Oderisi, Agobbio’s honour, and honour of that art Which is in Paris called illuminating?”
“Brother,” said he, “more laughing are the leaves Touched by the brush of Franco Bolognese; All his the honour now, and mine in part.
In sooth I had not been so courteous While I was living, for the great desire Of excellence, on which my heart was bent.
Here of such pride is paid the forfeiture; And yet I should not be here, were it not That, having power to sin, I turned to God.
O thou vain glory of the human powers, How little green upon thy summit lingers, If’t be not followed by an age of grossness!
In painting Cimabue thought that he Should hold the field, now Giotto has the cry, So that the other’s fame is growing dim.
So has one Guido from the other taken The glory of our tongue, and he perchance Is born, who from the nest shall chase them both.
Naught is this mundane rumour but a breath Of wind, that comes now this way and now that, And changes name, because it changes side.
What fame shalt thou have more, if old peel off From thee thy flesh, than if thou hadst been dead Before thou left the ‘pappo’ and the ‘dindi,’
Ere pass a thousand years? which is a shorter Space to the eterne, than twinkling of an eye Unto the circle that in heaven wheels slowest.
With him, who takes so little of the road In front of me, all Tuscany resounded; And now he scarce is lisped of in Siena,
Where he was lord, what time was overthrown The Florentine delirium, that superb Was at that day as now ’tis prostitute.
Your reputation is the colour of grass Which comes and goes, and that discolours it By which it issues green from out the earth.”
And I: “Thy true speech fills my heart with good Humility, and great tumour thou assuagest; But who is he, of whom just now thou spakest?”
“That,” he replied, “is Provenzan Salvani, And he is here because he had presumed To bring Siena all into his hands.
He has gone thus, and goeth without rest E’er since he died; such money renders back In payment he who is on earth too daring.”
And I: “If every spirit who awaits The verge of life before that he repent, Remains below there and ascends not hither,
(Unless good orison shall him bestead,) Until as much time as he lived be passed, How was the coming granted him in largess?”
“When he in greatest splendour lived,” said he, “Freely upon the Campo of Siena, All shame being laid aside, he placed himself;
And there to draw his friend from the duress Which in the prison-house of Charles he suffered, He brought himself to tremble in each vein.
I say no more, and know that I speak darkly; Yet little time shall pass before thy neighbours Will so demean themselves that thou canst gloss it.
This action has released him from those confines.”
Purgatorio: Canto XII
Abreast, like oxen going in a yoke, I with that heavy-laden soul went on, As long as the sweet pedagogue permitted;
But when he said, “Leave him, and onward pass, For here ’tis good that with the sail and oars, As much as may be, each push on his barque;”
Upright, as walking wills it, I redressed My person, notwithstanding that my thoughts Remained within me downcast and abashed.
I had moved on, and followed willingly The footsteps of my Master, and we both Already showed how light of foot we were,
When unto me he said: “Cast down thine eyes; ’Twere well for thee, to alleviate the way, To look upon the bed beneath thy feet.”
As, that some memory may exist of them, Above the buried dead their tombs in earth Bear sculptured on them what they were before;
Whence often there we weep for them afresh, From pricking of remembrance, which alone To the compassionate doth set its spur;
So saw I there, but of a better semblance In point of artifice, with figures covered Whate’er as pathway from the mount projects.
I saw that one who was created noble More than all other creatures, down from heaven Flaming with lightnings fall upon one side.
I saw Briareus smitten by the dart Celestial, lying on the other side, Heavy upon the earth by mortal frost.
I saw Thymbraeus, Pallas saw, and Mars, Still clad in armour round about their father, Gaze at the scattered members of the giants.
I saw, at foot of his great labour, Nimrod, As if bewildered, looking at the people Who had been proud with him in Sennaar.
O Niobe! with what afflicted eyes Thee I beheld upon the pathway traced, Between thy seven and seven children slain!
O Saul! how fallen upon thy proper sword Didst thou appear there lifeless in Gilboa, That felt thereafter neither rain nor dew!
O mad Arachne! so I thee beheld E’en then half spider, sad upon the shreds Of fabric wrought in evil hour for thee!
O Rehoboam! no more seems to threaten Thine image there; but full of consternation A chariot bears it off, when none pursues!
Displayed moreo’er the adamantine pavement How unto his own mother made Alcmaeon Costly appear the luckless ornament;
Displayed how his own sons did throw themselves Upon Sennacherib within the temple, And how, he being dead, they left him there;
Displayed the ruin and the cruel carnage That Tomyris wrought, when she to Cyrus said, “Blood didst thou thirst for, and with blood I glut thee!”
Displayed how routed fled the Assyrians After that Holofernes had been slain, And likewise the remainder of that slaughter.
I saw there Troy in ashes and in caverns; O Ilion! thee, how abject and debased, Displayed the image that is there discerned!
Whoe’er of pencil master was or stile, That could portray the shades and traits which there Would cause each subtile genius to admire?
Dead seemed the dead, the living seemed alive; Better than I saw not who saw the truth, All that I trod upon while bowed I went.
Now wax ye proud, and on with looks uplifted, Ye sons of Eve, and bow not down your faces So that ye may behold your evil ways!
More of the mount by us was now encompassed, And far more spent the circuit of the sun, Than had the mind preoccupied imagined,
When he, who ever watchful in advance Was going on, began: “Lift up thy head, ’Tis no more time to go thus meditating.
Lo there an Angel who is making haste To come towards us; lo, returning is From service of the day the sixth handmaiden.