From The Divine Comedy Inferno, Dante Alighieri

Introduction

The Divine Comedy (1307-1321) is one of the most intriguing and politically driven texts in the 14th Century. Who wouldn’t want to write an amazing poem and put all of your political enemies in hell and force them to suffer unspeakable acts of torture and pain! Indeed, Dante also put friends and people he respected in hell because he believed that all people needed to repent and care for their souls. The importance of this text lies not in its content necessarily (though that is important as well), but rather that it is written in Italian. This might seem trivial to us now, but that Dante chose to write in the vernacular language and not Latin significantly changes the course of literary history in the West—not to mention the movies, books, and video games this text has spawned. Up to this point in the Western Middle Ages, “literature” was only written in Latin, and anything written in a vernacular language was not worthy of a proper audience—i.e., educated people. The vernacular language was the language spoken by the people, the uneducated masses. So with this in mind, you can begin to see precisely who Dante was attempting to write for, who he wanted his work to touch and speak to, who needed to hear what he had to say.

Dante writes himself into the poem, referred to as Dante-pilgrim, and constructs a scenario in which Vigil, the author of The Aeneid, is his guide through hell. Dante meets Vigil just outside the gates of hell.  As the two writers enter limbo, they meet other important authors such as Homer, Ovid, Lucan, and Horace. By placing himself in the company of these authors, Dante not so subtly posits his own literary genius. This becomes a standard practice for many medieval authors that follow Dante’s lead and begin writing in a vernacular language. (A brief note on time periods and dating: Dante is writing at the very end of the Middle Ages and the very beginning of the Italian Renaissance in the 14th Century—typically scholars date the beginning of the Renaissance when Petrarch is crowned poet laureate in 1341, which comes after Dante’s death. In England, however, the 14th through the 15th century are still very much considered medieval. The “progress” that the Renaissance makes in Italy does not fully reach and affect other parts of Europe for some time.) As you read, consider the ways in which Dante-pilgrim’s journey has shaped our understanding of hell, punishment, and retribution. What kind of world does Dante create not through the creation of hell, but through writing and presenting new images in a language of the people?

Canto I

  • In middle of the journey of our days
  • I found that I was in a darksome wood—
  • The right road lost and vanished in the maze.
  • Ah me! how hard to make it understood
  • How rough that wood was, wild, and terrible:
  • By the mere thought my terror is renewed.
  • More bitter scarce were death. But ere I tell
  • At large of good which there by me was found,
  • I will relate what other things befell.
  • Scarce know I how I entered on that ground,
  • So deeply, at the moment when I passed
  • From the right way, was I in slumber drowned.
  • But when beneath a hill arrived at last,
  • Which for the boundary of the valley stood,
  • That with such terror had my heart harassed,
  • I upwards looked and saw its shoulders glowed,
  • Radiant already with that planet’s light
  • Which guideth surely upon every road.
  • A little then was quieted by the sight
  • The fear which deep within my heart had lain
  • Through all my sore experience of the night.
  • And as the man, who, breathing short in pain,
  • Hath ’scaped the sea and struggled to the shore,
  • Turns back to gaze upon the perilous main;
  • Even so my soul which fear still forward bore
  • Turned to review the pass whence I egressed,
  • And which none, living, ever left before.
  • My wearied frame refreshed with scanty rest,
  • I to ascend the lonely hill essayed;
  • The lower foot still that on which I pressed.
  • And lo! ere I had well beginning made,
  • A nimble leopard, light upon her feet,
  • And in a skin all spotted o’er arrayed:
  • Nor ceased she e’er me full in the face to meet,
  • And to me in my path such hindrance threw
  • That many a time I wheeled me to retreat.
  • It was the hour of dawn; with retinue
  • Of stars that were with him when Love Divine
  • In the beginning into motion drew
  • Those beauteous things, the sun began to shine;
  • And I took heart to be of better cheer
  • Touching the creature with the gaudy skin,
  • Seeing ’twas morn, and spring-tide of the year;
  • Yet not so much but that when into sight
  • A lion came, I was disturbed with fear.
  • Towards me he seemed advancing in his might,
  • Rabid with hunger and with head high thrown:
  • The very air was tremulous with fright.
  • A she-wolf, too, beheld I further on;
  • All kinds of lust seemed in her leanness pent:
  • Through her, ere now, much folk have misery known.
  • By her oppressed, and altogether spent
  • By the terror breathing from her aspect fell,
  • I lost all hope of making the ascent.
  • And as the man who joys while thriving well,
  • When comes the time to lose what he has won
  • In all his thoughts weeps inconsolable,
  • So mourned I through the brute which rest knows none:
  • She barred my way again and yet again,
  • And thrust me back where silent is the sun.
  • And as I downward rushed to reach the plain,
  • Before mine eyes appeared there one aghast,
  • And dumb like those that silence long maintain.
  • When I beheld him in the desert vast,
  • ‘Whate’er thou art, or ghost or man,’ I cried,
  • ‘I pray thee show such pity as thou hast.’
  • ‘No man, though once I was; on either side
  • Lombard my parents were, and both of them
  • For native place had Mantua,’ he replied.
  • ‘Though late, sub Julio, to the world I came,
  • And lived at Rome in good Augustus’ day,
  • While yet false gods and lying were supreme.
  • Poet I was, renowning in my lay
  • Anchises’ righteous son, who fled from Troy
  • What time proud Ilion was to flames a prey.
  • But thou, why going back to such annoy?
  • The hill delectable why fear to mount,
  • The origin and ground of every joy?’
  • ‘And thou in sooth art Virgil, and the fount
  • Whence in a stream so full doth language flow?’
  • Abashed, I answered him with humble front.
  • ‘Of other poets light and honour thou!
  • Let the long study and great zeal I’ve shown
  • In searching well thy book, avail me now!
  • My master thou, and author thou, alone!
  • From thee alone I, borrowing, could attain
  • The style consummate which has made me known.
  • Behold the beast which makes me turn again:
  • Deliver me from her, illustrious Sage;
  • Because of her I tremble, pulse and vein.’
  • ‘Thou must attempt another pilgrimage,’
  • Observing that I wept, he made reply,
  • ‘If from this waste thyself thou ’dst disengage.
  • Because the beast thou art afflicted by
  • Will suffer none along her way to pass,
  • But, hindering them, harasses till they die.
  • So vile a nature and corrupt she has,
  • Her raging lust is still insatiate,
  • And food but makes it fiercer than it was.
  • Many a creature hath she ta’en for mate,
  • And more she’ll wed until the hound comes forth
  • To slay her and afflict with torment great.
  • He will not batten upon pelf or earth;
  • But he shall feed on valour, love, and lore;
  • Feltro and Feltro ’tween shall be his birth.
  • He will save humbled Italy, and restore,
  • For which of old virgin Camilla died;
  • Turnus, Euryalus, Nisus, died of yore.
  • Her through all cities chasing far and wide,
  • He at the last to Hell will thrust her down,
  • Whence envy first unloosed her. I decide
  • Therefore and judge that thou hadst best come on
  • With me for guide; and hence I’ll lead thee where
  • A place eternal shall to thee be shown.
  • There shalt thou hear the howlings of despair
  • In which the ancient spirits make lament,
  • All of them fain the second death to share.
  • Next shalt thou them behold who are content,
  • Because they hope some time, though now in fire,
  • To join the blessed they will win consent.
  • And if to these thou later wouldst aspire,
  • A soul shall guide thee, worthier far than I;
  • When I depart thee will I leave with her.
  • Because the Emperor who reigns on high
  • Wills not, since ’gainst His laws I did rebel,
  • That to His city I bring any nigh.
  • O’er all the world He rules, there reigns as well;
  • There is His city and exalted seat:
  • O happy whom He chooses there to dwell!’
  • And I to him: ‘Poet, I thee entreat,
  • Even by that God who was to thee unknown,
  • That I may ’scape this present ill, nor meet
  • With worse, conduct me whither thou hast shown,
  • That I may see Saint Peter’s gate, and those
  • Whom thou reportest in such misery thrown.’
  • He moved away; behind him held I close.
  • Canto II

  • It was the close of day; the twilight brown
  • All living things on earth was setting free
  • From toil, while I preparing was alone
  • To face the battle which awaited me,
  • As well of ruth as of the perilous quest,
  • Now to be limned by faultless memory.
  • Help, lofty genius! Muses, manifest
  • Goodwill to me! Recording what befell,
  • Do thou, O mind, now show thee at thy best!
  • I thus began: ‘Poet, and Guide as well,
  • Ere trusting me on this adventure wide,
  • Judge if my strength of it be capable.
  • Thou say’st that Silvius’ father, ere he died,
  • Still mortal to the world immortal went,
  • There in the body some time to abide.
  • Yet that the Foe of evil was content
  • That he should come, seeing what high effect,
  • And who and what should from him claim descent,
  • No room for doubt can thoughtful man detect:
  • For he of noble Rome, and of her sway
  • Imperial, in high Heaven grew sire elect.
  • And both of these, the very truth to say,
  • Were founded for the holy seat, whereon
  • The Greater Peter’s follower sits to-day.
  • Upon this journey, praised by thee, were known
  • And heard things by him, to the which he owed
  • His triumph, whence derives the Papal gown.
  • That path the Chosen Vessel later trod
  • So of the faith assurance to receive,
  • Which is beginning of salvation’s road.
  • But why should I go? Who will sanction give?
  • For I am no Æneas and no Paul;
  • Me worthy of it no one can believe,
  • Nor I myself. Hence venturing at thy call,
  • I dread the journey may prove rash. But vain
  • For me to reason; wise, thou know’st it all.’
  • Like one no more for what he wished for fain,
  • Whose purpose shares mutation with his thought
  • Till from the thing begun he turns again;
  • On that dim slope so grew I all distraught,
  • Because, by brooding on it, the design
  • I shrank from, which before I warmly sought.
  • ‘If well I understand these words of thine,’
  • The shade of him magnanimous made reply,
  • ‘Thy soul ’neath cowardice hath sunk supine,
  • Which a man often is so burdened by,
  • It makes him falter from a noble aim,
  • As beasts at objects ill-distinguished shy.
  • To loose thee from this terror, why I came,
  • And what the speech I heard, I will relate,
  • When first of all I pitied thee. A dame
  • Hailed me where I ’mongst those in dubious state
  • Had my abode: so blest was she and fair,
  • Her to command me I petitioned straight.
  • Her eyes were shining brighter than the star;
  • And she began to say in accents sweet
  • And tuneable as angel’s voices are:
  • “O Mantuan Shade, in courtesy complete,
  • Whose fame survives on earth, nor less shall grow
  • Through all the ages, while the world hath seat;
  • A friend of mine, with fortune for his foe,
  • Has met with hindrance on his desert way,
  • And, terror-smitten, can no further go,
  • But turns; and that he is too far astray,
  • And that I rose too late for help, I dread,
  • From what in Heaven concerning him they say.
  • Go, with thy speech persuasive him bestead,
  • And with all needful help his guardian prove,
  • That touching him I may be comforted.
  • Know, it is Beatrice seeks thee thus to move.
  • Thence come I where I to return am fain:
  • My coming and my plea are ruled by love.
  • When I shall stand before my Lord again,
  • Often to Him I will renew thy praise.”
  • And here she ceased, nor did I dumb remain:
  • “O virtuous Lady, thou alone the race
  • Of man exaltest ’bove all else that dwell
  • Beneath the heaven which wheels in narrowest space.
  • To do thy bidding pleases me so well,
  • Though ’twere already done ’twere all too slow;
  • Thy wish at greater length no need to tell.
  • But say, what tempted thee to come thus low,
  • Even to this centre, from the region vast,
  • Whither again thou art on fire to go?”
  • “This much to learn since a desire thou hast,”
  • She answered, “briefly thee I’ll satisfy,
  • How, coming here, I through no terrors passed.
  • We are, of right, such things alarmèd by,
  • As have the power to hurt us; all beside
  • Are harmless, and not fearful. Wherefore I—
  • Thus formed by God, His bounty is so wide—
  • Am left untouched by all your miseries,
  • And through this burning unmolested glide.
  • A noble lady is in Heaven, who sighs
  • O’er the obstruction where I’d have thee go,
  • And breaks the rigid edict of the skies.
  • Calling on Lucia, thus she made her know
  • What she desired: ‘Thy vassal now hath need
  • Of help from thee; do thou then helpful show.’
  • Lucia, who hates all cruelty, in speed
  • Rose, and approaching where I sat at rest,
  • To venerable Rachel giving heed,
  • Me: ‘Beatrice, true praise of God,’ addressed;
  • ‘Why not help him who had such love for thee,
  • And from the vulgar throng to win thee pressed?
  • Dost thou not hear him weeping pitiably,
  • Nor mark the death now threatening him upon
  • A flood than which less awful is the sea?’
  • Never on earth did any ever run,
  • Allured by profit or impelled by fear,
  • Swifter than I, when speaking she had done,
  • From sitting ’mong the blest descended here,
  • My trust upon thy comely rhetoric cast,
  • Which honours thee and those who lend it ear.”
  • When of these words she spoken had the last,
  • She turned aside bright eyes which tears did fill,
  • And I by this was urged to greater haste.
  • And so it was I joined thee by her will,
  • And from that raging beast delivered thee,
  • Which barred the near way up the beauteous hill.
  • What ails thee then? Why thus a laggard be?
  • Why cherish in thy heart a craven fear?
  • Where is thy franchise, where thy bravery,
  • When three such blessed ladies have a care
  • For thee in Heaven’s court, and these words of mine
  • Thee for such wealth of blessedness prepare?’
  • As flowers, by chills nocturnal made to pine
  • And shut themselves, when touched by morning bright
  • Upon their stems arise, full-blown and fine;
  • So of my faltering courage changed the plight,
  • And such good cheer ran through my heart, it spurred
  • Me to declare, like free-born generous wight:
  • ‘O pitiful, who for my succour stirred!
  • And thou how full of courtesy to run,
  • Alert in service, hearkening her true word!
  • Thou with thine eloquence my heart hast won
  • To keen desire to go, and the intent
  • Which first I held I now no longer shun.
  • Therefore proceed; my will with thine is blent:
  • Thou art my Guide, Lord, Master; thou alone!’
  • Thus I; and with him, as he forward went,
  • The steep and rugged road I entered on.
  • Canto III

  • Through me to the city dolorous lies the way,
  • Who pass through me shall pains eternal prove,
  • Through me are reached the people lost for aye.
  • ’Twas Justice did my Glorious Maker move;
  • I was created by the Power Divine,
  • The Highest Wisdom, and the Primal Love.
  • No thing’s creation earlier was than mine,
  • If not eternal; I for aye endure:
  • Ye who make entrance, every hope resign!
  • These words beheld I writ in hue obscure
  • On summit of a gateway; wherefore I:
  • ‘Hard is their meaning, Master.’ Like one sure
  • Beforehand of my thought, he made reply:
  • ‘Here it behoves to leave all fears behind;
  • All cowardice behoveth here to die.
  • For now the place I told thee of we find,
  • Where thou the miserable folk shouldst see
  • Who the true good of reason have resigned.’
  • Then, with a glance of glad serenity,
  • He took my hand in his, which made me bold,
  • And brought me in where secret things there be.
  • There sighs and plaints and wailings uncontrolled
  • The dim and starless air resounded through;
  • Nor at the first could I from tears withhold.
  • The various languages and words of woe,
  • The uncouth accents, mixed with angry cries
  • And smiting palms and voices loud and low,
  • Composed a tumult which doth circling rise
  • For ever in that air obscured for aye;
  • As when the sand upon the whirlwind flies.
  • And, horror-stricken, I began to say:
  • ‘Master, what sound can this be that I hear,
  • And who the folk thus whelmed in misery?’
  • And he replied: ‘In this condition drear
  • Are held the souls of that inglorious crew
  • Who lived unhonoured, but from guilt kept clear.
  • Mingled they are with caitiff angels, who,
  • Though from avowed rebellion they refrained,
  • Disloyal to God, did selfish ends pursue.
  • Heaven hurled them forth, lest they her beauty stained;
  • Received they are not by the nether hell,
  • Else triumph thence were by the guilty gained.’
  • And I: ‘What bear they, Master, to compel
  • Their lamentations in such grievous tone?’
  • He answered: ‘In few words I will thee tell.
  • No hope of death is to the wretches known;
  • So dim the life and abject where they sigh
  • They count all sufferings easier than their own.
  • Of them the world endures no memory;
  • Mercy and justice them alike disdain.
  • Speak we not of them: glance, and pass them by.’
  • I saw a banner when I looked again,
  • Which, always whirling round, advanced in haste
  • As if despising steadfast to remain.
  • And after it so many people chased
  • In long procession, I should not have said
  • That death had ever wrought such countless waste.
  • Some first I recognised, and then the shade
  • I saw and knew of him, the search to close,
  • Whose dastard soul the great refusal made.
  • Straightway I knew and was assured that those
  • Were of the tribe of caitiffs, even the race
  • Despised of God and hated of His foes.
  • The wretches, who when living showed no trace
  • Of life, went naked, and were fiercely stung
  • By wasps and hornets swarming in that place.
  • Blood drawn by these out of their faces sprung
  • And, mingled with their tears, was at their feet
  • Sucked up by loathsome worms it fell among.
  • Casting mine eyes beyond, of these replete,
  • People I saw beside an ample stream,
  • Whereon I said: ‘O Master, I entreat,
  • Tell who these are, and by what law they seem
  • Impatient till across the river gone;
  • As I distinguish by this feeble gleam.’
  • And he: ‘These things shall unto thee be known
  • What time our footsteps shall at rest be found
  • Upon the woful shores of Acheron.’
  • Then with ashamèd eyes cast on the ground,
  • Fearing my words were irksome in his ear,
  • Until we reached the stream I made no sound.
  • And toward us, lo, within a bark drew near
  • A veteran who with ancient hair was white,
  • Shouting: ‘Ye souls depraved, be filled with fear.
  • Hope never more of Heaven to win the sight;
  • I come to take you to the other strand,
  • To frost and fire and everlasting night.
  • And thou, O living soul, who there dost stand,
  • From ’mong the dead withdraw thee.’ Then, aware
  • That not at all I stirred at his command,
  • ‘By other ways, from other ports thou’lt fare;
  • But they will lead thee to another shore,
  • And ’tis a skiff more buoyant must thee bear.’
  • And then my leader: ‘Charon, be not sore,
  • For thus it has been willed where power ne’er came
  • Short of the will; thou therefore ask no more.’
  • And hereupon his shaggy cheeks grew tame
  • Who is the pilot of the livid pool,
  • And round about whose eyes glowed wheels of flame.
  • But all the shades, naked and spent with dool,
  • Stood chattering with their teeth, and changing hue
  • Soon as they heard the words unmerciful.
  • God they blasphemed, and families whence they grew;
  • Mankind, the time, place, seed in which began
  • Their lives, and seed whence they were born. Then drew
  • They crowding all together, as they ran,
  • Bitterly weeping, to the accursed shore
  • Predestinate for every godless man.
  • The demon Charon, with eyes evermore
  • Aglow, makes signals, gathering them all;
  • And whoso lingers smiteth with his oar.
  • And as the faded leaves of autumn fall
  • One after the other, till at last the bough
  • Sees on the ground spread all its coronal;
  • With Adam’s evil seed so haps it now:
  • At signs each falls in turn from off the coast,
  • As fowls into the ambush fluttering go.
  • The gloomy waters thus by them are crossed,
  • And ere upon the further side they land,
  • On this, anew, is gathering a host.
  • ‘Son,’ said the courteous Master, ‘understand,
  • All such as in the wrath of God expire,
  • From every country muster on this strand.
  • To cross the river they are all on fire;
  • Their wills by Heavenly justice goaded on
  • Until their terror merges in desire.
  • This way no righteous soul has ever gone;
  • Wherefore of thee if Charon should complain,
  • Now art thou sure what by his words is shown.’
  • When he had uttered this the dismal plain
  • Trembled so violently, my terror past
  • Recalling now, I’m bathed in sweat again.
  • Out of the tearful ground there moaned a blast
  • Whence lightning flashed forth red and terrible,
  • Which vanquished all my senses; and, as cast
  • In sudden slumber, to the ground I fell.
  • Canto IV

  • Resounding thunder broke the slumber deep
  • That drowsed my senses, and myself I shook
  • Like one by force awakened out of sleep.
  • Then rising up I cast a steady look,
  • With eyes refreshed, on all that lay around,
  • And cognisance of where I found me took.
  • In sooth, me on the valley’s brink I found
  • Of the dolorous abyss, where infinite
  • Despairing cries converge with thundering sound.
  • Cloudy it was, and deep, and dark as night;
  • So dark that, peering eagerly to find
  • What its depths held, no object met my sight.
  • ‘Descend we now into this region blind,’
  • Began the Poet with a face all pale;
  • ‘I will go first, and do thou come behind.’
  • Marking the wanness on his cheek prevail,
  • I asked, ‘How can I, seeing thou hast dread,
  • My wonted comforter when doubts assail?’
  • ‘The anguish of the people,’ then he said,
  • ‘Who are below, has painted on my face
  • Pity, by thee for fear interpreted.
  • Come! The long journey bids us move apace.’
  • Then entered he and made me enter too
  • The topmost circle girding the abyss.
  • Therein, as far as I by listening knew,
  • There was no lamentation save of sighs,
  • Whence throbbed the air eternal through and through.
  • This, sorrow without suffering made arise
  • From infants and from women and from men,
  • Gathered in great and many companies.
  • And the good Master: ‘Wouldst thou nothing then
  • Of who those spirits are have me relate?
  • Yet know, ere passing further, although when
  • On earth they sinned not, worth however great
  • Availed them not, they being unbaptized—
  • Part of the faith thou holdest. If their fate
  • Was to be born ere man was Christianised,
  • God, as behoved, they never could adore:
  • And I myself am with this folk comprised.
  • For such defects—our guilt is nothing more—
  • We are thus lost, suffering from this alone
  • That, hopeless, we our want of bliss deplore.’
  • Greatly I sorrowed when he made this known,
  • Because I knew that some who did excel
  • In worthiness were to that limbo gone.
  • ‘Tell me, O Sir,’ I prayed him, ‘Master, tell,’
  • —That I of the belief might surety win,
  • Victorious every error to dispel—
  • ‘Did ever any hence to bliss attain
  • By merit of another or his own?’
  • And he, to whom my hidden drift was plain:
  • ‘I to this place but lately had come down,
  • When I beheld one hither make descent;
  • A Potentate who wore a victor’s crown.
  • The shade of our first sire forth with him went,
  • And his son Abel’s, Noah’s forth he drew,
  • Moses’ who gave the laws, the obedient
  • Patriarch Abram’s, and King David’s too;
  • And, with his sire and children, Israel,
  • And Rachel, winning whom such toils he knew;
  • And many more, in blessedness to dwell.
  • And I would have thee know, earlier than these
  • No human soul was ever saved from Hell.’
  • While thus he spake our progress did not cease,
  • But we continued through the wood to stray;
  • The wood, I mean, with crowded ghosts for trees.
  • Ere from the summit far upon our way
  • We yet had gone, I saw a flame which glowed,
  • Holding a hemisphere of dark at bay.
  • ’Twas still a little further on our road,
  • Yet not so far but that in part I guessed
  • That honourable people there abode.
  • ‘Of art and science Ornament confessed!
  • Who are these honoured in such high degree,
  • And in their lot distinguished from the rest?’
  • He said: ‘For them their glorious memory,
  • Still in thy world the subject of renown,
  • Wins grace by Heaven distinguished thus to be.’
  • Meanwhile I heard a voice: ‘Be honour shown
  • To the illustrious poet, for his shade
  • Is now returning which a while was gone. ’
  • When the voice paused nor further utterance made,
  • Four mighty shades drew near with one accord,
  • In aspect neither sorrowful nor glad.
  • ‘Consider that one, armèd with a sword,’
  • Began my worthy Master in my ear,
  • ‘Before the three advancing like their lord;
  • For he is Homer, poet with no peer:
  • Horace the satirist is next in line,
  • Ovid comes third, and Lucan in the rear.
  • And ’tis because their claim agrees with mine
  • Upon the name they with one voice did cry,
  • They to their honour in my praise combine.’
  • Thus I beheld their goodly company—
  • The lords of song in that exalted style
  • Which o’er all others, eagle-like, soars high.
  • Having conferred among themselves a while
  • They turned toward me and salutation made,
  • And, this beholding, did my Master smile.
  • And honour higher still to me was paid,
  • For of their company they made me one;
  • So I the sixth part ’mong such genius played.
  • Thus journeyed we to where the brightness shone,
  • Holding discourse which now ’tis well to hide,
  • As, where I was, to hold it was well done.
  • At length we reached a noble castle’s side
  • Which lofty sevenfold walls encompassed round,
  • And it was moated by a sparkling tide.
  • This we traversed as if it were dry ground;
  • I through seven gates did with those sages go;
  • Then in a verdant mead people we found
  • Whose glances were deliberate and slow.
  • Authority was stamped on every face;
  • Seldom they spake, in tuneful voices low.
  • We drew apart to a high open space
  • Upon one side which, luminously serene,
  • Did of them all a perfect view embrace.
  • Thence, opposite, on the enamel green
  • Were shown me mighty spirits; with delight
  • I still am stirred them only to have seen.
  • With many more, Electra was in sight;
  • ’Mong them I Hector and Æneas spied,
  • Cæsar in arms, his eyes, like falcon’s, bright.
  • And, opposite, Camilla I descried;
  • Penthesilea too; the Latian King
  • Sat with his child Lavinia by his side.
  • Brutus I saw, who Tarquin forth did fling;
  • Cornelia, Marcia, Julia, and Lucrece.
  • Saladin sat alone. Considering
  • What lay beyond with somewhat lifted eyes,
  • The Master I beheld of those that know,
  • ’Mong such as in philosophy were wise.
  • All gazed on him as if toward him to show
  • Becoming honour; Plato in advance
  • With Socrates: the others stood below.
  • Democritus who set the world on chance;
  • Thales, Diogenes, Empedocles,
  • Zeno, and Anaxagoras met my glance;
  • Heraclitus, and Dioscorides,
  • Wise judge of nature. Tully, Orpheus, were
  • With ethic Seneca and Linus. These,
  • And Ptolemy, too, and Euclid, geometer,
  • Galen, Hippocrates, and Avicen,
  • Averroes, the same who did prepare
  • The Comment, saw I; nor can tell again
  • The names of all I saw; the subject wide
  • So urgent is, time often fails me. Then
  • Into two bands the six of us divide;
  • Me by another way my Leader wise
  • Doth from the calm to air which trembles, guide.
  • I reach a part which all benighted lies.
  • Canto V

  • From the First Circle thus I downward went
  • Into the Second, which girds narrower space,
  • But greater woe compelling loud lament.
  • Minos waits awful there and snarls, the case
  • Examining of all who enter in;
  • And, as he girds him, dooms them to their place.
  • I say, each ill-starred spirit must begin
  • On reaching him its guilt in full to tell;
  • And he, omniscient as concerning sin,
  • Sees to what circle it belongs in Hell;
  • Then round him is his tail as often curled
  • As he would have it stages deep to dwell.
  • And evermore before him stand a world
  • Of shades; and all in turn to judgment come,
  • Confess and hear, and then are downward hurled.
  • ‘O thou who comest to the very home
  • Of woe,’ when he beheld me Minos cried,
  • Ceasing a while from utterance of doom,
  • ‘Enter not rashly nor in all confide;
  • By ease of entering be not led astray.’
  • ‘Why also growling?’ answered him my Guide;
  • ‘Seek not his course predestinate to stay;
  • For thus ’tis willed where nothing ever fails
  • Of what is willed. No further speech essay.’
  • And now by me are agonising wails
  • Distinguished plain; now am I come outright
  • Where grievous lamentation me assails.
  • Now had I reached a place devoid of light,
  • Raging as in a tempest howls the sea
  • When with it winds, blown thwart each other, fight.
  • The infernal storm is raging ceaselessly,
  • Sweeping the shades along with it, and them
  • It smites and whirls, nor lets them ever be.
  • Arrived at the precipitous extreme,
  • In shrieks and lamentations they complain,
  • And even the Power Divine itself blaspheme.
  • I understood that to this mode of pain
  • Are doomed the sinners of the carnal kind,
  • Who o’er their reason let their impulse reign.
  • As starlings in the winter-time combined
  • Float on the wing in crowded phalanx wide,
  • So these bad spirits, driven by that wind,
  • Float up and down and veer from side to side;
  • Nor for their comfort any hope they spy
  • Of rest, or even of suffering mollified.
  • And as the cranes in long-drawn company
  • Pursue their flight while uttering their song,
  • So I beheld approach with wailing cry
  • Shades lifted onward by that whirlwind strong.
  • ‘Master, what folk are these,’ I therefore said,
  • ‘Who by the murky air are whipped along? ’
  • ‘She, first of them,’ his answer thus was made,
  • ‘Of whom thou wouldst a wider knowledge win,
  • O’er many tongues and peoples, empire swayed.
  • So ruined was she by licentious sin
  • That she decreed lust should be uncontrolled,
  • To ease the shame that she herself was in.
  • She is Semiramis, of whom ’tis told
  • She followed Ninus, and his wife had been.
  • Hers were the realms now by the Sultan ruled.
  • The next is she who, amorous and self-slain,
  • Unto Sichæus’ dust did faithless show:
  • Then lustful Cleopatra.’ Next was seen
  • Helen, for whom so many years in woe
  • Ran out; and I the great Achilles knew,
  • Who at the last encountered love for foe.
  • Paris I saw and Tristram. In review
  • A thousand shades and more, he one by one
  • Pointed and named, whom love from life withdrew.
  • And after I had heard my Teacher run
  • O’er many a dame of yore and many a knight,
  • I, lost in pity, was wellnigh undone.
  • Then I: ‘O Poet, if I only might
  • Speak with the two that as companions hie,
  • And on the wind appear to be so light!’
  • And he to me: ‘When they shall come more nigh
  • Them shalt thou mark, and by the love shalt pray
  • Which leads them onward, and they will comply.’
  • Soon as the wind bends them to where we stay
  • I lift my voice: ‘O wearied souls and worn!
  • Come speak with us if none the boon gainsay.’
  • Then even as doves, urged by desire, return
  • On outspread wings and firm to their sweet nest
  • As through the air by mere volition borne,
  • From Dido’s band those spirits issuing pressed
  • Towards where we were, athwart the air malign;
  • My passionate prayer such influence possessed.
  • ‘O living creature, gracious and benign,
  • Us visiting in this obscurèd air,
  • Who did the earth with blood incarnadine;
  • If in the favour of the King we were
  • Who rules the world, we for thy peace would pray,
  • Since our misfortunes thy compassion stir.
  • Whate’er now pleases thee to hear or say
  • We listen to, or tell, at your demand;
  • While yet the wind, as now, doth silent stay.
  • My native city lies upon the strand
  • Where to the sea descends the river Po
  • For peace, with all his tributary band.
  • Love, in a generous heart set soon aglow,
  • Seized him for the fair form was mine above;
  • And still it irks me to have lost it so.
  • Love, which absolves no one beloved from love,
  • So strong a passion for him in me wrought
  • That, as thou seest, I still its mastery prove.
  • Love led us where we in one death were caught.
  • For him who slew us waits Caïna now.’
  • Unto our ears these words from them were brought.
  • When I had heard these troubled souls, my brow
  • I downward bent, and long while musing stayed,
  • Until the Poet asked: ‘What thinkest thou?’
  • And when I answered him, ‘Alas!’ I said,
  • ‘Sweet thoughts how many, and what strong desire,
  • These to their sad catastrophe betrayed!’
  • Then, turned once more to them, I to inquire
  • Began: ‘Francesca, these thine agonies
  • Me with compassion unto tears inspire.
  • But tell me, at the season of sweet sighs
  • What sign made love, and what the means he chose
  • To strip your dubious longings of disguise?’
  • And she to me: ‘The bitterest of woes
  • Is to remember in the midst of pain
  • A happy past; as well thy teacher knows.
  • Yet none the less, and since thou art so fain
  • The first occasion of our love to hear,
  • Like one I speak that cannot tears restrain.
  • As we for pastime one day reading were
  • How Lancelot by love was fettered fast—
  • All by ourselves and without any fear—
  • Moved by the tale our eyes we often cast
  • On one another, and our colour fled;
  • But one word was it, vanquished us at last.
  • When how the smile, long wearied for, we read
  • Was kissed by him who loved like none before,
  • This one, who henceforth never leaves me, laid
  • A kiss on my mouth, trembling the while all o’er.
  • The book was Galahad, and he as well
  • Who wrote the book. That day we read no more.’
  • And while one shade continued thus to tell,
  • The other wept so bitterly, I swooned
  • Away for pity, and as dead I fell:
  • Yea, as a corpse falls, fell I on the ground.
  • Canto VI

  • When I regained my senses, which had fled
  • At my compassion for the kindred two,
  • Which for pure sorrow quite had turned my head,
  • New torments and a crowd of sufferers new
  • I see around me as I move again,
  • Where’er I turn, where’er I bend my view.
  • In the Third Circle am I of the rain
  • Which, heavy, cold, eternal, big with woe,
  • Doth always of one kind and force remain.
  • Large hail and turbid water, mixed with snow,
  • Keep pouring down athwart the murky air;
  • And from the ground they fall on, stenches grow.
  • The savage Cerberus, a monster drear,
  • Howls from his threefold throat with canine cries
  • Above the people who are whelmèd there.
  • Oily and black his beard, and red his eyes,
  • His belly huge: claws from his fingers sprout.
  • The shades he flays, hooks, rends in cruel wise.
  • Beat by the rain these, dog-like, yelp and shout,
  • And shield themselves in turn with either side;
  • And oft the wretched sinners turn about.
  • When we by Cerberus, great worm, were spied,
  • He oped his mouths and all his fangs he showed,
  • While not a limb did motionless abide.
  • My Leader having spread his hands abroad,
  • Filled both his fists with earth ta’en from the ground,
  • And down the ravening gullets flung the load.
  • Then, as sharp set with hunger barks the hound,
  • But is appeased when at his meat he gnaws,
  • And, worrying it, forgets all else around;
  • So with those filthy faces there it was
  • Of the fiend Cerberus, who deafs the crowd
  • Of souls till they from hearing fain would pause.
  • We, travelling o’er the spirits who lay cowed
  • And sorely by the grievous showers harassed,
  • Upon their semblances of bodies trod.
  • Prone on the ground the whole of them were cast,
  • Save one of them who sat upright with speed
  • When he beheld that near to him we passed.
  • ‘O thou who art through this Inferno led,
  • Me if thou canst,’ he asked me, ‘recognise;
  • For ere I was dismantled thou wast made.’
  • And I to him: ‘Thy present tortured guise
  • Perchance hath blurred my memory of thy face,
  • Until it seems I ne’er on thee set eyes.
  • But tell me who thou art, within this place
  • So cruel set, exposed to such a pain,
  • Than which, if greater, none has more disgrace.’
  • And he: ‘Thy city, swelling with the bane
  • Of envy till the sack is running o’er,
  • Me in the life serene did once contain.
  • As Ciacco me your citizens named of yore;
  • And for the damning sin of gluttony
  • I, as thou seest, am beaten by this shower.
  • No solitary woful soul am I,
  • For all of these endure the selfsame doom
  • For the same fault.’ Here ended his reply.
  • I answered him, ‘O Ciacco, with such gloom
  • Thy misery weighs me, I to weep am prone;
  • But, if thou canst, declare to what shall come
  • The citizens of the divided town.
  • Holds it one just man? And declare the cause
  • Why ’tis of discord such a victim grown. ’
  • Then he to me: ‘After contentious pause
  • Blood will be spilt; the boorish party then
  • Will chase the others forth with grievous loss.
  • The former it behoves to fall again
  • Within three suns, the others to ascend,
  • Holpen by him whose wiles ere now are plain.
  • Long time, with heads held high, they’ll make to bend
  • The other party under burdens dire,
  • Howe’er themselves in tears and rage they spend.
  • There are two just men, at whom none inquire.
  • Envy, and pride, and avarice, even these
  • Are the three sparks have set all hearts on fire.’
  • With this the tearful sound he made to cease:
  • And I to him, ‘Yet would I have thee tell—
  • And of thy speech do thou the gift increase—
  • Tegghiaio and Farinata, honourable,
  • James Rusticucci, Mosca, Arrigo,
  • With all the rest so studious to excel
  • In good; where are they? Help me this to know;
  • Great hunger for the news hath seizèd me;
  • Delights them Heaven, or tortures Hell below?’
  • He said: ‘Among the blackest souls they be;
  • Them to the bottom weighs another sin.
  • Shouldst thou so far descend, thou mayst them see.
  • But when the sweet world thou again dost win,
  • I pray thee bring me among men to mind;
  • No more I tell, nor new reply begin.’
  • Then his straightforward eyes askance declined;
  • He looked at me a moment ere his head
  • He bowed; then fell flat ’mong the other blind.
  • ‘Henceforth he waketh not,’ my Leader said,
  • ‘Till he shall hear the angel’s trumpet sound,
  • Ushering the hostile Judge. By every shade
  • Its dismal sepulchre shall then be found,
  • Its flesh and ancient form it shall resume,
  • And list what echoes in eternal round.’
  • So passed we where the shades and rainy spume
  • Made filthy mixture, with steps taken slow;
  • Touching a little on the world to come.
  • Wherefore I said: ‘Master, shall torments grow
  • After the awful sentence hath been heard,
  • Or lesser prove and not so fiercely glow?’
  • ‘Repair unto thy Science,’ was his word;
  • ‘Which tells, as things approach a perfect state
  • To keener joy or suffering they are stirred.
  • Therefore although this people cursed by fate
  • Ne’er find perfection in its full extent,
  • To it they then shall more approximate
  • Than now.’ Our course we round the circle bent,
  • Still holding speech, of which I nothing say,
  • Until we came where down the pathway went:
  • There found we Plutus, the great enemy.
  • Canto VII

  • Pape Satan! Pape Satan! Aleppe!
  • Plutus began in accents rough and hard:
  • And that mild Sage, all-knowing, said to me,
  • For my encouragement: ‘Pay no regard
  • Unto thy fear; whatever power he sways
  • Thy passage down this cliff shall not be barred.’
  • Then turning round to that inflamèd face
  • He bade: ‘Accursed wolf, at peace remain;
  • And, pent within thee, let thy fury blaze.
  • Down to the pit we journey not in vain:
  • So rule they where by Michael in Heaven’s height
  • On the adulterous pride was vengeance ta’en. ’
  • Then as the bellied sails, by wind swelled tight,
  • Suddenly drag whenever snaps the mast;
  • Such, falling to the ground, the monster’s plight.
  • To the Fourth Cavern so we downward passed,
  • Winning new reaches of the doleful shore
  • Where all the vileness of the world is cast.
  • Justice of God! which pilest more and more
  • Pain as I saw, and travail manifold!
  • Why will we sin, to be thus wasted sore?
  • As at Charybdis waves are forward rolled
  • To break on other billows midway met,
  • The people here a counterdance must hold.
  • A greater crowd than I had seen as yet,
  • With piercing yells advanced on either track,
  • Rolling great stones to which their chests were set.
  • They crashed together, and then each turned back
  • Upon the way he came, while shouts arise,
  • ‘Why clutch it so?’ and ‘Why to hold it slack?’
  • In the dark circle wheeled they on this wise
  • From either hand to the opposing part,
  • Where evermore they raised insulting cries.
  • Thither arrived, each, turning, made fresh start
  • Through the half circle a new joust to run;
  • And I, stung almost to the very heart,
  • Said, ‘O my Master, wilt thou make it known
  • Who the folk are? Were these all clerks who go
  • Before us on the left, with shaven crown?’
  • And he replied: ‘All of them squinted so
  • In mental vision while in life they were,
  • They nothing spent by rule. And this they show,
  • And with their yelping voices make appear
  • When half-way round the circle they have sped,
  • And sins opposing them asunder tear.
  • Each wanting thatch of hair upon his head
  • Was once a clerk, or pope, or cardinal,
  • In whom abound the ripest growths of greed.’
  • And I: ‘O Master, surely among all
  • Of these I ought some few to recognise,
  • Who by such filthy sins were held in thrall.’
  • And he to me: ‘Vain thoughts within thee rise;
  • Their witless life, which made them vile, now mocks—
  • Dimming their faces still—all searching eyes.
  • Eternally they meet with hostile shocks;
  • These rising from the tomb at last shall stand
  • With tight clenched fists, and those with ruined locks.
  • Squandering or hoarding, they the happy land
  • Have lost, and now are marshalled for this fray;
  • Which to describe doth no fine words demand.
  • Know hence, my Son, how fleeting is the play
  • Of goods at the dispose of Fortune thrown,
  • And which mankind to such fierce strife betray.
  • Not all the gold which is beneath the moon
  • Could purchase peace, nor all that ever was,
  • To but one soul of these by toil undone.’
  • ‘Master,’ I said, ‘tell thou, ere making pause,
  • Who Fortune is of whom thou speak’st askance,
  • Who holds all worldly riches in her claws.’
  • ‘O foolish creatures, lost in ignorance!’
  • He answer made. ‘Now see that the reply
  • Thou store, which I concerning her advance.
  • He who in knowledge is exalted high,
  • Framing all Heavens gave such as should them guide,
  • That so each part might shine to all; whereby
  • Is equal light diffused on every side:
  • And likewise to one guide and governor,
  • Of worldly splendours did control confide,
  • That she in turns should different peoples dower
  • With this vain good; from blood should make it pass
  • To blood, in spite of human wit. Hence, power,
  • Some races failing, other some amass,
  • According to her absolute decree
  • Which hidden lurks, like serpent in the grass.
  • Vain ’gainst her foresight yours must ever be.
  • She makes provision, judges, holds her reign,
  • As doth his power supreme each deity.
  • Her permutations can no truce sustain;
  • Necessity compels her to be swift,
  • So swift they follow who their turn must gain.
  • And this is she whom they so often lift
  • Upon the cross, who ought to yield her praise;
  • And blame on her and scorn unjustly shift.
  • But she is blest nor hears what any says,
  • With other primal creatures turns her sphere,
  • Jocund and glad, rejoicing in her ways.
  • To greater woe now let us downward steer.
  • The stars which rose when I began to guide
  • Are falling now, nor may we linger here.’
  • We crossed the circle to the other side,
  • Arriving where a boiling fountain fell
  • Into a brooklet by its streams supplied.
  • In depth of hue the flood did perse excel,
  • And we, with this dim stream to lead us on,
  • Descended by a pathway terrible.
  • A marsh which by the name of Styx is known,
  • Fed by this gloomy brook, lies at the base
  • Of threatening cliffs hewn out of cold grey stone.
  • And I, intent on study of the place,
  • Saw people in that ditch, mud-smeared. In it
  • All naked stood with anger-clouded face.
  • Nor with their fists alone each fiercely hit
  • The other, but with feet and chest and head,
  • And with their teeth to shreds each other bit.
  • ‘Son, now behold,’ the worthy Master said,
  • ‘The souls of those whom anger made a prize;
  • And, further, I would have thee certified
  • That ’neath the water people utter sighs,
  • And make the bubbles to the surface come;
  • As thou mayst see by casting round thine eyes.
  • Fixed in the mud they say: “We lived in gloom
  • In the sweet air made jocund by the day,
  • Nursing within us melancholy fume.
  • In this black mud we now our gloom display.”
  • This hymn with gurgling throats they strive to sound,
  • Which they in speech unbroken fail to say.’
  • And thus about the loathsome pool we wound
  • For a wide arc, between the dry and soft,
  • With eyes on those who gulp the filth, turned round.
  • At last we reached a tower that soared aloft.
  • Canto VIII

  • I say, continuing, that long before
  • To its foundations we approachèd nigh
  • Our eyes went travelling to the top of the tower;
  • For, hung out there, two flames we could espy.
  • Then at such distance, scarce our eyesight made
  • It clearly out, another gave reply.
  • And, to the Sea of Knowledge turned, I said:
  • ‘What meaneth this? and what reply would yield
  • That other light, and who have it displayed?’
  • ‘Thou shouldst upon the impure watery field,’
  • He said, ‘already what approaches know,
  • But that the fen-fog holds it still concealed.’
  • Never was arrow yet from sharp-drawn bow
  • Urged through the air upon a swifter flight
  • Than what I saw a tiny vessel show,
  • Across the water shooting into sight;
  • A single pilot served it for a crew,
  • Who shouted: ‘Art thou come, thou guilty sprite?’
  • ‘O Phlegyas, Phlegyas, this thy loud halloo!
  • For once,’ my Lord said, ‘idle is and vain.
  • Thou hast us only till the mud we’re through.’
  • And, as one cheated inly smarts with pain
  • When the deceit wrought on him is betrayed,
  • His gathering ire could Phlegyas scarce contain.
  • Into the bark my Leader stepped, and made
  • Me take my place beside him; nor a jot,
  • Till I had entered, was it downward weighed.
  • Soon as my Guide and I were in the boat,
  • To cleave the flood began the ancient prow,
  • Deeper than ’tis with others wont to float.
  • Then, as the stagnant ditch we glided through,
  • One smeared with filth in front of me arose
  • And said: ‘Thus coming ere thy period, who
  • Art thou?’ And I: ‘As one who forthwith goes
  • I come; but thou defiled, how name they thee?’
  • ‘I am but one who weeps,’ he said. ‘With woes, ’
  • I answered him, ‘with tears and misery,
  • Accursèd soul, remain; for thou art known
  • Unto me now, all filthy though thou be.’
  • Then both his hands were on the vessel thrown;
  • But him my wary Master backward heaved,
  • Saying: ‘Do thou ’mong the other dogs be gone!’
  • Then to my neck with both his arms he cleaved,
  • And kissed my face, and, ‘Soul disdainful,’ said,
  • ‘O blessed she in whom thou wast conceived!
  • He in the world great haughtiness displayed.
  • No deeds of worth his memory adorn;
  • And therefore rages here his sinful shade.
  • And many are there by whom crowns are worn
  • On earth, shall wallow here like swine in mire,
  • Leaving behind them names o’erwhelmed in scorn.’
  • And I: ‘O Master, I have great desire
  • To see him well soused in this filthy tide,
  • Ere from the lake we finally retire.’
  • And he: ‘Or ever shall have been descried
  • The shore by thee, thy longing shall be met;
  • For such a wish were justly gratified.’
  • A little after in such fierce onset
  • The miry people down upon him bore,
  • I praise and bless God for it even yet.
  • ‘Philip Argenti! at him!’ was the roar;
  • And then that furious spirit Florentine
  • Turned with his teeth upon himself and tore.
  • Here was he left, nor wins more words of mine.
  • Now in my ears a lamentation rung,
  • Whence I to search what lies ahead begin.
  • And the good Master told me: ‘Son, ere long
  • We to the city called of Dis draw near,
  • Where in great armies cruel burghers throng.’
  • And I: ‘Already, Master, I appear
  • Mosques in the valley to distinguish well,
  • Vermilion, as if they from furnace were
  • Fresh come.’ And he: ‘Fires everlasting dwell
  • Within them, whence appear they glowing hot,
  • As thou discernest in this lower hell.’
  • We to the moat profound at length were brought,
  • Which girds that city all disconsolate;
  • The walls around it seemed of iron wrought.
  • Not without fetching first a compass great,
  • We came to where with angry cry at last:
  • ‘Get out,’ the boatman yelled; ‘behold the gate!’
  • More than a thousand, who from Heaven were cast,
  • I saw above the gates, who furiously
  • Demanded: ‘Who, ere death on him has passed,
  • Holds through the region of the dead his way?’
  • And my wise Master made to them a sign
  • That he had something secretly to say.
  • Then ceased they somewhat from their great disdain,
  • And said: ‘Come thou, but let that one be gone
  • Who thus presumptuous enters on this reign.
  • Let him retrace his madcap way alone,
  • If he but can; thou meanwhile lingering here,
  • Through such dark regions who hast led him down.’
  • Judge, reader, if I was not filled with fear,
  • Hearing the words of this accursèd threat;
  • For of return my hopes extinguished were.
  • ‘Beloved Guide, who more than seven times set
  • Me in security, and safely brought
  • Through frightful dangers in my progress met,
  • Leave me not thus undone;’ I him besought:
  • ‘If further progress be to us denied,
  • Let us retreat together, tarrying not.’
  • The Lord who led me thither then replied:
  • ‘Fear not: by One so great has been assigned
  • Our passage, vainly were all hindrance tried.
  • Await me here, and let thy fainting mind
  • Be comforted and with good hope be fed,
  • Not to be left in this low world behind.’
  • Thus goes he, thus am I abandonèd
  • By my sweet Father. I in doubt remain,
  • With Yes and No contending in my head.
  • I could not hear what speech he did maintain,
  • But no long time conferred he in that place,
  • Till, to be first, all inward raced again.
  • And then the gates were closed in my Lord’s face
  • By these our enemies; outside stood he;
  • Then backward turned to me with lingering pace,
  • With downcast eyes, and all the bravery
  • Stripped from his brows; and he exclaimed with sighs;
  • ‘Who dare deny the doleful seats to me!’
  • And then he said: ‘Although my wrath arise,
  • Fear not, for I to victory will pursue,
  • Howe’er within they plot, the enterprise.
  • This arrogance of theirs is nothing new;
  • They showed it once at a less secret door
  • Which stands unbolted since. Thou didst it view,
  • And saw the dark-writ legend which it bore.
  • Thence, even now, is one who hastens down
  • Through all the circles, guideless, to this shore,
  • And he shall win us entrance to the town.’
  • Canto IX

  • The hue which cowardice on my face did paint
  • When I beheld my guide return again,
  • Put his new colour quicker ’neath restraint.
  • Like one who listens did he fixed remain;
  • For far to penetrate the air like night,
  • And heavy mist, the eye was bent in vain.
  • ‘Yet surely we must vanquish in the fight;’
  • Thus he, ‘unless—but with such proffered aid—
  • O how I weary till he come in sight!’
  • Well I remarked how he transition made,
  • Covering his opening words with those behind,
  • Which contradicted what at first he said.
  • Nath’less his speech with terror charged my mind,
  • For, haply, to the word which broken fell
  • Worse meaning than he purposed, I assigned.
  • Down to this bottom of the dismal shell
  • Comes ever any from the First Degree,
  • Where all their pain is, stripped of hope to dwell?
  • To this my question thus responded he:
  • ‘Seldom it haps to any to pursue
  • The journey now embarked upon by me.
  • Yet I ere this descended, it is true,
  • Beneath a spell of dire Erichtho’s laid,
  • Who could the corpse with soul inform anew.
  • Short while my flesh of me was empty made
  • When she required me to o’erpass that wall,
  • From Judas’ circle to abstract a shade.
  • That is the deepest, darkest place of all,
  • And furthest from the heaven which moves the skies;
  • I know the way; fear nought that can befall.
  • These fens from which vile exhalations rise
  • The doleful city all around invest,
  • Which now we reach not save in angry wise.’
  • Of more he spake nought in my mind doth rest,
  • For, with mine eyes, my every thought had been
  • Fixed on the lofty tower with flaming crest,
  • Where, in a moment and upright, were seen
  • Three hellish furies, all with blood defaced,
  • And woman-like in members and in mien.
  • Hydras of brilliant green begirt their waist;
  • Snakes and cerastes for their tresses grew,
  • And these were round their dreadful temples braced.
  • That they the drudges were, full well he knew,
  • Of her who is the queen of endless woes,
  • And said to me: ‘The fierce Erynnyes view!
  • Herself upon the left Megæra shows;
  • That is Alecto weeping on the right;
  • Tisiphone’s between.’ Here made he close.
  • Each with her nails her breast tore, and did smite
  • Herself with open palms. They screamed in tone
  • So fierce, I to the Poet clove for fright.
  • ‘Medusa, come, that we may make him stone!’
  • All shouted as they downward gazed; ‘Alack!
  • Theseus escaped us when he ventured down.’
  • ‘Keep thine eyes closed and turn to them thy back,
  • For if the Gorgon chance to be displayed
  • And thou shouldst look, farewell the upward track!’
  • Thus spake the Master, and himself he swayed
  • Me round about; nor put he trust in mine
  • But his own hands upon mine eyelids laid.
  • O ye with judgment gifted to divine
  • Look closely now, and mark what hidden lore
  • Lies ’neath the veil of my mysterious line!
  • Across the turbid waters came a roar
  • And crash of sound, which big with fear arose:
  • Because of it fell trembling either shore.
  • The fashion of it was as when there blows
  • A blast by cross heats made to rage amain,
  • Which smites the forest and without repose
  • The shattered branches sweeps in hurricane;
  • In clouds of dust, majestic, onward flies,
  • Wild beasts and herdsmen driving o’er the plain.
  • ‘Sharpen thy gaze,’ he bade—and freed mine eyes—
  • ‘Across the foam-flecked immemorial lake,
  • Where sourest vapour most unbroken lies.’
  • And as the frogs before the hostile snake
  • Together of the water get them clear,
  • And on the dry ground, huddling, shelter take;
  • More than a thousand ruined souls in fear
  • Beheld I flee from one who, dry of feet,
  • Was by the Stygian ferry drawing near.
  • Waving his left hand he the vapour beat
  • Swiftly from ’fore his face, nor seemed he spent
  • Save with fatigue at having this to meet.
  • Well I opined that he from Heaven was sent,
  • And to my Master turned. His gesture taught
  • I should be dumb and in obeisance bent.
  • Ah me, how with disdain appeared he fraught!
  • He reached the gate, which, touching with a rod,
  • He oped with ease, for it resisted not.
  • ‘People despised and banished far from God, ’
  • Upon the awful threshold then he spoke,
  • ‘How holds in you such insolence abode?
  • Why kick against that will which never broke
  • Short of its end, if ever it begin,
  • And often for you fiercer torments woke?
  • Butting ’gainst fate, what can ye hope to win?
  • Your Cerberus, as is to you well known,
  • Still bears for this a well-peeled throat and chin.’
  • Then by the passage foul he back was gone,
  • Nor spake to us, but like a man was he
  • By other cares absorbed and driven on
  • Than that of those who may around him be.
  • And we, confiding in the sacred word,
  • Moved toward the town in all security.
  • We entered without hindrance, and I, spurred
  • By my desire the character to know
  • And style of place such strong defences gird,
  • Entering, begin mine eyes around to throw,
  • And see on every hand a vast champaign,
  • The teeming seat of torments and of woe.
  • And as at Arles where Rhone spreads o’er the plain,
  • Or Pola, hard upon Quarnaro sound
  • Which bathes the boundaries Italian,
  • The sepulchres uneven make the ground;
  • So here on every side, but far more dire
  • And grievous was the fashion of them found.
  • For scattered ’mid the tombs blazed many a fire,
  • Because of which these with such fervour burned
  • No arts which work in iron more require.
  • All of the lids were lifted. I discerned
  • By keen laments which from the tombs arose
  • That sad and suffering ones were there inurned.
  • I said: ‘O Master, tell me who are those
  • Buried within the tombs, of whom the sighs
  • Come to our ears thus eloquent of woes?’
  • And he to me: ‘The lords of heresies
  • With followers of all sects, a greater band
  • Than thou wouldst think, these sepulchres comprise.
  • To lodge them like to like the tombs are planned.
  • The sepulchres have more or less of heat.’
  • Then passed we, turning to the dexter hand,
  • ’Tween torments and the lofty parapet.
  • Canto XXXIV

  • ‘Vexilla Regis prodeunt Inferni
  • Towards where we are; seek then with vision keen,’
  • My Master bade, ‘if trace of him thou spy.’
  • As, when the exhalations dense have been,
  • Or when our hemisphere grows dark with night,
  • A windmill from afar is sometimes seen,
  • I seemed to catch of such a structure sight;
  • And then to ’scape the blast did backward draw
  • Behind my Guide—sole shelter in my plight.
  • Now was I where (I versify with awe)
  • The shades were wholly covered, and did show
  • Visible as in glass are bits of straw.
  • Some stood upright and some were lying low,
  • Some with head topmost, others with their feet;
  • And some with face to feet bent like a bow.
  • But we kept going on till it seemed meet
  • Unto my Master that I should behold
  • The creature once of countenance so sweet.
  • He stepped aside and stopped me as he told:
  • ‘Lo, Dis! And lo, we are arrived at last
  • Where thou must nerve thee and must make thee bold,’
  • How I hereon stood shivering and aghast,
  • Demand not, Reader; this I cannot write;
  • So much the fact all reach of words surpassed.
  • I was not dead, yet living was not quite:
  • Think for thyself, if gifted with the power,
  • What, life and death denied me, was my plight.
  • Of that tormented realm the Emperor
  • Out of the ice stood free to middle breast;
  • And me a giant less would overtower
  • Than would his arm a giant. By such test
  • Judge then what bulk the whole of him must show,
  • Of true proportion with such limb possessed.
  • If he was fair of old as hideous now,
  • And yet his brows against his Maker raised,
  • Meetly from him doth all affliction flow.
  • O how it made me horribly amazed
  • When on his head I saw three faces grew!
  • The one vermilion which straight forward gazed;
  • And joining on to it were other two,
  • One rising up from either shoulder-bone,
  • Till to a junction on the crest they drew.
  • ’Twixt white and yellow seemed the right-hand one;
  • The left resembled them whose country lies
  • Where valleywards the floods of Nile flow down.
  • Beneath each face two mighty wings did rise,
  • Such as this bird tremendous might demand:
  • Sails of sea-ships ne’er saw I of such size.
  • Not feathered were they, but in style were planned
  • Like a bat’s wing: by them a threefold breeze—
  • For still he flapped them—evermore was fanned,
  • And through its depths Cocytus caused to freeze.
  • Down three chins tears for ever made descent
  • From his six eyes; and red foam mixed with these.
  • In every mouth there was a sinner rent
  • By teeth that shred him as a heckle would;
  • Thus three at once compelled he to lament.
  • To the one in front ’twas little to be chewed
  • Compared with being clawed and clawed again,
  • Till his back-bone of skin was sometimes nude.
  • ‘The soul up yonder in the greater pain
  • Is Judas ’Scariot, with his head among
  • The teeth,’ my Master said, ‘while outward strain
  • His legs. Of the two whose heads are downward hung,
  • Brutus is from the black jowl pendulous:
  • See how he writhes, yet never wags his tongue.
  • The other, great of thew, is Cassius:
  • But night is rising and we must be gone;
  • For everything hath now been seen by us.’
  • Then, as he bade, I to his neck held on
  • While he the time and place of vantage chose;
  • And when the wings enough were open thrown
  • He grasped the shaggy ribs and clutched them close,
  • And so from tuft to tuft he downward went
  • Between the tangled hair and crust which froze.
  • We to the bulging haunch had made descent,
  • To where the hip-joint lies in it; and then
  • My Guide, with painful twist and violent,
  • Turned round his head to where his feet had been,
  • And like a climber closely clutched the hair:
  • I thought to Hell that we returned again.
  • ‘Hold fast to me; it needs by such a stair,’
  • Panting, my Leader said, like man foredone,
  • ‘That we from all that wretchedness repair.’
  • Right through a hole in a rock when he had won,
  • The edge of it he gave me for a seat
  • And deftly then to join me clambered on.
  • I raised mine eyes, expecting they would meet
  • With Lucifer as I beheld him last,
  • But saw instead his upturned legs and feet.
  • If in perplexity I then was cast,
  • Let ignorant people think who do not see
  • What point it was that I had lately passed.
  • ‘Rise to thy feet,’ my Master said to me;
  • ‘The way is long and rugged the ascent,
  • And at mid tierce the sun must almost be.’
  • ’Twas not as if on palace floors we went:
  • A dungeon fresh from nature’s hand was this;
  • Rough underfoot, and of light indigent.
  • ‘Or ever I escape from the abyss,
  • O Master,’ said I, standing now upright,
  • ‘Correct in few words where I think amiss.
  • Where lies the ice? How hold we him in sight
  • Set upside down? The sun, how had it skill
  • In so short while to pass to morn from night?’
  • And he: ‘In fancy thou art standing, still,
  • On yon side of the centre, where I caught
  • The vile worm’s hair which through the world doth drill.
  • There wast thou while our downward course I wrought;
  • But when I turned, the centre was passed by
  • Which by all weights from every point is sought.
  • And now thou standest ’neath the other sky,
  • Opposed to that which vaults the great dry ground
  • And ’neath whose summit there did whilom die
  • The Man whose birth and life were sinless found.
  • Thy feet are firm upon the little sphere,
  • On this side answering to Judecca’s round.
  • ’Tis evening yonder when ’tis morning here;
  • And he whose tufts our ladder rungs supplied.
  • Fixed as he was continues to appear.
  • Headlong from Heaven he fell upon this side;
  • Whereon the land, protuberant here before,
  • For fear of him did in the ocean hide,
  • And ’neath our sky emerged: land, as of yore
  • Still on this side, perhaps that it might shun
  • His fall, heaved up, and filled this depth no more. ’
  • From Belzebub still widening up and on,
  • Far-stretching as the sepulchre, extends
  • A region not beheld, but only known
  • By murmur of a brook which through it wends,
  • Declining by a channel eaten through
  • The flinty rock; and gently it descends.
  • My Guide and I, our journey to pursue
  • To the bright world, upon this road concealed
  • Made entrance, and no thought of resting knew.
  • He first, I second, still ascending held
  • Our way until the fair celestial train
  • Was through an opening round to me revealed:
  • And, issuing thence, we saw the stars again.
  • Source:

    The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri: The Inferno by Dante Alighieri
    is produced by Project Gutenberg and released under a public domain license.

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    Introduction to World Literature Anthology Copyright © 2021 by Christian Beck is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License, except where otherwise noted.

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