The Divine Comedy by Dante, Illustrated, Purgatory, Complete

by Dante Alighieri

CANTO XXI

The natural thirst, ne’er quench’d but from the well,
Whereof the woman of Samaria crav’d,
Excited: haste along the cumber’d path,
After my guide, impell’d; and pity mov’d
My bosom for the ’vengeful deed, though just.
When lo! even as Luke relates, that Christ
Appear’d unto the two upon their way,
New-risen from his vaulted grave; to us
A shade appear’d, and after us approach’d,
Contemplating the crowd beneath its feet.
We were not ware of it; so first it spake,
Saying, “God give you peace, my brethren!” then
Sudden we turn’d: and Virgil such salute,
As fitted that kind greeting, gave, and cried:
“Peace in the blessed council be thy lot
Awarded by that righteous court, which me
To everlasting banishment exiles!”
“How!” he exclaim’d, nor from his speed meanwhile
Desisting, “If that ye be spirits, whom God
Vouchsafes not room above, who up the height
Has been thus far your guide?” To whom the bard:
“If thou observe the tokens, which this man
Trac’d by the finger of the angel bears,
’Tis plain that in the kingdom of the just
He needs must share. But sithence she, whose wheel
Spins day and night, for him not yet had drawn
That yarn, which, on the fatal distaff pil’d,
Clotho apportions to each wight that breathes,
His soul, that sister is to mine and thine,
Not of herself could mount, for not like ours
Her ken: whence I, from forth the ample gulf
Of hell was ta’en, to lead him, and will lead
Far as my lore avails. But, if thou know,
Instruct us for what cause, the mount erewhile
Thus shook and trembled: wherefore all at once
Seem’d shouting, even from his wave-wash’d foot.”
That questioning so tallied with my wish,
The thirst did feel abatement of its edge
E’en from expectance. He forthwith replied,
“In its devotion nought irregular
This mount can witness, or by punctual rule
Unsanction’d; here from every change exempt.
Other than that, which heaven in itself
Doth of itself receive, no influence
Can reach us. Tempest none, shower, hail or snow,
Hoar frost or dewy moistness, higher falls
Than that brief scale of threefold steps: thick clouds
Nor scudding rack are ever seen: swift glance
Ne’er lightens, nor Thaumantian Iris gleams,
That yonder often shift on each side heav’n.
Vapour adust doth never mount above
The highest of the trinal stairs, whereon
Peter’s vicegerent stands. Lower perchance,
With various motion rock’d, trembles the soil:
But here, through wind in earth’s deep hollow pent,
I know not how, yet never trembled: then
Trembles, when any spirit feels itself
So purified, that it may rise, or move
For rising, and such loud acclaim ensues.
Purification by the will alone
Is prov’d, that free to change society
Seizes the soul rejoicing in her will.
Desire of bliss is present from the first;
But strong propension hinders, to that wish
By the just ordinance of heav’n oppos’d;
Propension now as eager to fulfil
Th’ allotted torment, as erewhile to sin.
And I who in this punishment had lain
Five hundred years and more, but now have felt
Free wish for happier clime. Therefore thou felt’st
The mountain tremble, and the spirits devout
Heard’st, over all his limits, utter praise
To that liege Lord, whom I entreat their joy
To hasten.” Thus he spake: and since the draught
Is grateful ever as the thirst is keen,
No words may speak my fullness of content.
“Now,” said the instructor sage, “I see the net
That takes ye here, and how the toils are loos’d,
Why rocks the mountain and why ye rejoice.
Vouchsafe, that from thy lips I next may learn,
Who on the earth thou wast, and wherefore here
So many an age wert prostrate.”—“In that time,
When the good Titus, with Heav’n’s King to help,
Aveng’d those piteous gashes, whence the blood
By Judas sold did issue, with the name
Most lasting and most honour’d there was I
Abundantly renown’d,” the shade reply’d,
“Not yet with faith endued. So passing sweet
My vocal Spirit, from Tolosa, Rome
To herself drew me, where I merited
A myrtle garland to inwreathe my brow.
Statius they name me still. Of Thebes I sang,
And next of great Achilles: but i’ th’ way
Fell with the second burthen. Of my flame
Those sparkles were the seeds, which I deriv’d
From the bright fountain of celestial fire
That feeds unnumber’d lamps, the song I mean
Which sounds Aeneas’ wand’rings: that the breast
I hung at, that the nurse, from whom my veins
Drank inspiration: whose authority
Was ever sacred with me. To have liv’d
Coeval with the Mantuan, I would bide
The revolution of another sun
Beyond my stated years in banishment.”
The Mantuan, when he heard him, turn’d to me,
And holding silence: by his countenance
Enjoin’d me silence but the power which wills,
Bears not supreme control: laughter and tears
Follow so closely on the passion prompts them,
They wait not for the motions of the will
In natures most sincere. I did but smile,
As one who winks; and thereupon the shade
Broke off, and peer’d into mine eyes, where best
Our looks interpret. “So to good event
Mayst thou conduct such great emprize,” he cried,
“Say, why across thy visage beam’d, but now,
The lightning of a smile!” On either part
Now am I straiten’d; one conjures me speak,
Th’ other to silence binds me: whence a sigh
I utter, and the sigh is heard. “Speak on;”
The teacher cried; “and do not fear to speak,
But tell him what so earnestly he asks.”
Whereon I thus: “Perchance, O ancient spirit!
Thou marvel’st at my smiling. There is room
For yet more wonder. He who guides my ken
On high, he is that Mantuan, led by whom
Thou didst presume of men and gods to sing.
If other cause thou deem’dst for which I smil’d,
Leave it as not the true one; and believe
Those words, thou spak’st of him, indeed the cause.”
Now down he bent t’ embrace my teacher’s feet;
But he forbade him: “Brother! do it not:
Thou art a shadow, and behold’st a shade.”
He rising answer’d thus: “Now hast thou prov’d
The force and ardour of the love I bear thee,
When I forget we are but things of air,
And as a substance treat an empty shade.”

CANTO XXII

Now we had left the angel, who had turn’d
To the sixth circle our ascending step,
One gash from off my forehead raz’d: while they,
Whose wishes tend to justice, shouted forth:
“Blessed!” and ended with, “I thirst:” and I,
More nimble than along the other straits,
So journey’d, that, without the sense of toil,
I follow’d upward the swift-footed shades;
When Virgil thus began: “Let its pure flame
From virtue flow, and love can never fail
To warm another’s bosom’ so the light
Shine manifestly forth. Hence from that hour,
When ’mongst us in the purlieus of the deep,
Came down the spirit of Aquinum’s hard,
Who told of thine affection, my good will
Hath been for thee of quality as strong
As ever link’d itself to one not seen.
Therefore these stairs will now seem short to me.
But tell me: and if too secure I loose
The rein with a friend’s license, as a friend
Forgive me, and speak now as with a friend:
How chanc’d it covetous desire could find
Place in that bosom, ’midst such ample store
Of wisdom, as thy zeal had treasur’d there?”
First somewhat mov’d to laughter by his words,
Statius replied: “Each syllable of thine
Is a dear pledge of love. Things oft appear
That minister false matters to our doubts,
When their true causes are remov’d from sight.
Thy question doth assure me, thou believ’st
I was on earth a covetous man, perhaps
Because thou found’st me in that circle plac’d.
Know then I was too wide of avarice:
And e’en for that excess, thousands of moons
Have wax’d and wan’d upon my sufferings.
And were it not that I with heedful care
Noted where thou exclaim’st as if in ire
With human nature, ‘Why, thou cursed thirst
Of gold! dost not with juster measure guide
The appetite of mortals?’ I had met
The fierce encounter of the voluble rock.
Then was I ware that with too ample wing
The hands may haste to lavishment, and turn’d,
As from my other evil, so from this
In penitence. How many from their grave
Shall with shorn locks arise, who living, aye
And at life’s last extreme, of this offence,
Through ignorance, did not repent. And know,
The fault which lies direct from any sin
In level opposition, here With that
Wastes its green rankness on one common heap.
Therefore if I have been with those, who wail
Their avarice, to cleanse me, through reverse
Of their transgression, such hath been my lot.”
To whom the sovran of the pastoral song:
“While thou didst sing that cruel warfare wag’d
By the twin sorrow of Jocasta’s womb,
From thy discourse with Clio there, it seems
As faith had not been shine: without the which
Good deeds suffice not. And if so, what sun
Rose on thee, or what candle pierc’d the dark
That thou didst after see to hoist the sail,
And follow, where the fisherman had led?”
He answering thus: “By thee conducted first,
I enter’d the Parnassian grots, and quaff’d
Of the clear spring; illumin’d first by thee
Open’d mine eyes to God. Thou didst, as one,
Who, journeying through the darkness, hears a light
Behind, that profits not himself, but makes
His followers wise, when thou exclaimedst, ‘Lo!
A renovated world! Justice return’d!
Times of primeval innocence restor’d!
And a new race descended from above!’
Poet and Christian both to thee I owed.
That thou mayst mark more clearly what I trace,
My hand shall stretch forth to inform the lines
With livelier colouring. Soon o’er all the world,
By messengers from heav’n, the true belief
Teem’d now prolific, and that word of thine
Accordant, to the new instructors chim’d.
Induc’d by which agreement, I was wont
Resort to them; and soon their sanctity
So won upon me, that, Domitian’s rage
Pursuing them, I mix’d my tears with theirs,
And, while on earth I stay’d, still succour’d them;
And their most righteous customs made me scorn
All sects besides. Before I led the Greeks
In tuneful fiction, to the streams of Thebes,
I was baptiz’d; but secretly, through fear,
Remain’d a Christian, and conform’d long time
To Pagan rites. Five centuries and more,
T for that lukewarmness was fain to pace
Round the fourth circle. Thou then, who hast rais’d
The covering, which did hide such blessing from me,
Whilst much of this ascent is yet to climb,
Say, if thou know, where our old Terence bides,
Caecilius, Plautus, Varro: if condemn’d
They dwell, and in what province of the deep.”
“These,” said my guide, “with Persius and myself,
And others many more, are with that Greek,
Of mortals, the most cherish’d by the Nine,
In the first ward of darkness. There ofttimes
We of that mount hold converse, on whose top
For aye our nurses live. We have the bard
Of Pella, and the Teian, Agatho,
Simonides, and many a Grecian else
Ingarlanded with laurel. Of thy train
Antigone is there, Deiphile,
Argia, and as sorrowful as erst
Ismene, and who show’d Langia’s wave:
Deidamia with her sisters there,
And blind Tiresias’ daughter, and the bride
Sea-born of Peleus.” Either poet now
Was silent, and no longer by th’ ascent
Or the steep walls obstructed, round them cast
Inquiring eyes. Four handmaids of the day
Had finish’d now their office, and the fifth
Was at the chariot-beam, directing still
Its balmy point aloof, when thus my guide:
“Methinks, it well behooves us to the brink
Bend the right shoulder’ circuiting the mount,
As we have ever us’d.” So custom there
Was usher to the road, the which we chose
Less doubtful, as that worthy shade complied.
They on before me went; I sole pursued,
List’ning their speech, that to my thoughts convey’d
Mysterious lessons of sweet poesy.
But soon they ceas’d; for midway of the road
A tree we found, with goodly fruitage hung,
And pleasant to the smell: and as a fir
Upward from bough to bough less ample spreads,
So downward this less ample spread, that none.
Methinks, aloft may climb. Upon the side,
That clos’d our path, a liquid crystal fell
From the steep rock, and through the sprays above
Stream’d showering. With associate step the bards
Drew near the plant; and from amidst the leaves
A voice was heard: “Ye shall be chary of me;”
And after added: “Mary took more thought
For joy and honour of the nuptial feast,
Than for herself who answers now for you.
The women of old Rome were satisfied
With water for their beverage. Daniel fed
On pulse, and wisdom gain’d. The primal age
Was beautiful as gold; and hunger then
Made acorns tasteful, thirst each rivulet
Run nectar. Honey and locusts were the food,
Whereon the Baptist in the wilderness
Fed, and that eminence of glory reach’d
And greatness, which the’ Evangelist records.”

CANTO XXIII

On the green leaf mine eyes were fix’d, like his
Who throws away his days in idle chase
Of the diminutive, when thus I heard
The more than father warn me: “Son! our time
Asks thriftier using. Linger not: away.”
Thereat my face and steps at once I turn’d
Toward the sages, by whose converse cheer’d
I journey’d on, and felt no toil: and lo!
A sound of weeping and a song: “My lips,
O Lord!” and these so mingled, it gave birth
To pleasure and to pain. “O Sire, belov’d!
Say what is this I hear?” Thus I inquir’d.
“Spirits,” said he, “who as they go, perchance,
Their debt of duty pay.” As on their road
The thoughtful pilgrims, overtaking some
Not known unto them, turn to them, and look,
But stay not; thus, approaching from behind
With speedier motion, eyed us, as they pass’d,
A crowd of spirits, silent and devout.
The eyes of each were dark and hollow: pale
Their visage, and so lean withal, the bones
Stood staring thro’ the skin. I do not think
Thus dry and meagre Erisicthon show’d,
When pinc’ed by sharp-set famine to the quick.
“Lo!” to myself I mus’d, “the race, who lost
Jerusalem, when Mary with dire beak
Prey’d on her child.” The sockets seem’d as rings,
From which the gems were drops. Who reads the name
Of man upon his forehead, there the M
Had trac’d most plainly. Who would deem, that scent
Of water and an apple, could have prov’d
Powerful to generate such pining want,
Not knowing how it wrought? While now I stood
Wond’ring what thus could waste them (for the cause
Of their gaunt hollowness and scaly rind
Appear’d not) lo! a spirit turn’d his eyes
In their deep-sunken cell, and fasten’d then
On me, then cried with vehemence aloud:
“What grace is this vouchsaf’d me?” By his looks
I ne’er had recogniz’d him: but the voice
Brought to my knowledge what his cheer conceal’d.
Remembrance of his alter’d lineaments
Was kindled from that spark; and I agniz’d
The visage of Forese. “Ah! respect
This wan and leprous wither’d skin,” thus he
Suppliant implor’d, “this macerated flesh.
Speak to me truly of thyself. And who
Are those twain spirits, that escort thee there?
Be it not said thou Scorn’st to talk with me.”

“That face of thine,” I answer’d him, “which dead
I once bewail’d, disposes me not less
For weeping, when I see It thus transform’d.
Say then, by Heav’n, what blasts ye thus? The whilst
I wonder, ask not Speech from me: unapt
Is he to speak, whom other will employs.”
He thus: “The water and tee plant we pass’d,
Virtue possesses, by th’ eternal will
Infus’d, the which so pines me. Every spirit,
Whose song bewails his gluttony indulg’d
Too grossly, here in hunger and in thirst
Is purified. The odour, which the fruit,
And spray, that showers upon the verdure, breathe,
Inflames us with desire to feed and drink.
Nor once alone encompassing our route
We come to add fresh fuel to the pain:
Pain, said I? solace rather: for that will
To the tree leads us, by which Christ was led
To call Elias, joyful when he paid
Our ransom from his vein.” I answering thus:
“Forese! from that day, in which the world
For better life thou changedst, not five years
Have circled. If the power of sinning more
Were first concluded in thee, ere thou knew’st
That kindly grief, which re-espouses us
To God, how hither art thou come so soon?
I thought to find thee lower, there, where time
Is recompense for time.” He straight replied:
“To drink up the sweet wormwood of affliction
I have been brought thus early by the tears
Stream’d down my Nella’s cheeks. Her prayers devout,
Her sighs have drawn me from the coast, where oft
Expectance lingers, and have set me free
From th’ other circles. In the sight of God
So much the dearer is my widow priz’d,
She whom I lov’d so fondly, as she ranks
More singly eminent for virtuous deeds.
The tract most barb’rous of Sardinia’s isle,
Hath dames more chaste and modester by far
Than that wherein I left her. O sweet brother!
What wouldst thou have me say? A time to come
Stands full within my view, to which this hour
Shall not be counted of an ancient date,
When from the pulpit shall be loudly warn’d
Th’ unblushing dames of Florence, lest they bare
Unkerchief’d bosoms to the common gaze.
What savage women hath the world e’er seen,
What Saracens, for whom there needed scourge
Of spiritual or other discipline,
To force them walk with cov’ring on their limbs!
But did they see, the shameless ones, that Heav’n
Wafts on swift wing toward them, while I speak,
Their mouths were op’d for howling: they shall taste
Of Borrow (unless foresight cheat me here)
Or ere the cheek of him be cloth’d with down
Who is now rock’d with lullaby asleep.
Ah! now, my brother, hide thyself no more,
Thou seest how not I alone but all
Gaze, where thou veil’st the intercepted sun.”
Whence I replied: “If thou recall to mind
What we were once together, even yet
Remembrance of those days may grieve thee sore.
That I forsook that life, was due to him
Who there precedes me, some few evenings past,
When she was round, who shines with sister lamp
To his, that glisters yonder,” and I show’d
The sun. “Tis he, who through profoundest night
Of he true dead has brought me, with this flesh
As true, that follows. From that gloom the aid
Of his sure comfort drew me on to climb,
And climbing wind along this mountain-steep,
Which rectifies in you whate’er the world
Made crooked and deprav’d I have his word,
That he will bear me company as far
As till I come where Beatrice dwells:
But there must leave me. Virgil is that spirit,
Who thus hath promis’d,” and I pointed to him;
“The other is that shade, for whom so late
Your realm, as he arose, exulting shook
Through every pendent cliff and rocky bound.”

CANTO XXIV

Our journey was not slacken’d by our talk,
Nor yet our talk by journeying. Still we spake,
And urg’d our travel stoutly, like a ship
When the wind sits astern. The shadowy forms,