The Divine Comedy by Dante, Illustrated, Purgatory, Complete

by Dante Alighieri

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

CANTO XIV

“Say who is he around our mountain winds,
Or ever death has prun’d his wing for flight,
That opes his eyes and covers them at will?”
“I know not who he is, but know thus much
He comes not singly. Do thou ask of him,
For thou art nearer to him, and take heed
Accost him gently, so that he may speak.”
Thus on the right two Spirits bending each
Toward the other, talk’d of me, then both
Addressing me, their faces backward lean’d,
And thus the one began: “O soul, who yet
Pent in the body, tendest towards the sky!
For charity, we pray thee’ comfort us,
Recounting whence thou com’st, and who thou art:
For thou dost make us at the favour shown thee
Marvel, as at a thing that ne’er hath been.”
“There stretches through the midst of Tuscany,”
I straight began: “a brooklet, whose well-head
Springs up in Falterona, with his race
Not satisfied, when he some hundred miles
Hath measur’d. From his banks bring, I this frame.
To tell you who I am were words misspent:
For yet my name scarce sounds on rumour’s lip.”
“If well I do incorp’rate with my thought
The meaning of thy speech,” said he, who first
Addrest me, “thou dost speak of Arno’s wave.”
To whom the other: “Why hath he conceal’d
The title of that river, as a man
Doth of some horrible thing?” The spirit, who
Thereof was question’d, did acquit him thus:
“I know not: but ’tis fitting well the name
Should perish of that vale; for from the source
Where teems so plenteously the Alpine steep
Maim’d of Pelorus, (that doth scarcely pass
Beyond that limit,) even to the point
Whereunto ocean is restor’d, what heaven
Drains from th’ exhaustless store for all earth’s streams,
Throughout the space is virtue worried down,
As ’twere a snake, by all, for mortal foe,
Or through disastrous influence on the place,
Or else distortion of misguided wills,
That custom goads to evil: whence in those,
The dwellers in that miserable vale,
Nature is so transform’d, it seems as they
Had shar’d of Circe’s feeding. ’Midst brute swine,
Worthier of acorns than of other food
Created for man’s use, he shapeth first
His obscure way; then, sloping onward, finds
Curs, snarlers more in spite than power, from whom
He turns with scorn aside: still journeying down,
By how much more the curst and luckless foss
Swells out to largeness, e’en so much it finds
Dogs turning into wolves. Descending still
Through yet more hollow eddies, next he meets
A race of foxes, so replete with craft,
They do not fear that skill can master it.
Nor will I cease because my words are heard
By other ears than thine. It shall be well
For this man, if he keep in memory
What from no erring Spirit I reveal.
Lo! I behold thy grandson, that becomes
A hunter of those wolves, upon the shore
Of the fierce stream, and cows them all with dread:
Their flesh yet living sets he up to sale,
Then like an aged beast to slaughter dooms.
Many of life he reaves, himself of worth
And goodly estimation. Smear’d with gore
Mark how he issues from the rueful wood,
Leaving such havoc, that in thousand years
It spreads not to prime lustihood again.”
As one, who tidings hears of woe to come,
Changes his looks perturb’d, from whate’er part
The peril grasp him, so beheld I change
That spirit, who had turn’d to listen, struck
With sadness, soon as he had caught the word.
His visage and the other’s speech did raise
Desire in me to know the names of both,
whereof with meek entreaty I inquir’d.
The shade, who late addrest me, thus resum’d:
“Thy wish imports that I vouchsafe to do
For thy sake what thou wilt not do for mine.
But since God’s will is that so largely shine
His grace in thee, I will be liberal too.
Guido of Duca know then that I am.
Envy so parch’d my blood, that had I seen
A fellow man made joyous, thou hadst mark’d
A livid paleness overspread my cheek.
Such harvest reap I of the seed I sow’d.
O man, why place thy heart where there doth need
Exclusion of participants in good?
This is Rinieri’s spirit, this the boast
And honour of the house of Calboli,
Where of his worth no heritage remains.
Nor his the only blood, that hath been stript
(’twixt Po, the mount, the Reno, and the shore,)
Of all that truth or fancy asks for bliss;
But in those limits such a growth has sprung
Of rank and venom’d roots, as long would mock
Slow culture’s toil. Where is good Lizio? where
Manardi, Traversalo, and Carpigna?
O bastard slips of old Romagna’s line!
When in Bologna the low artisan,
And in Faenza yon Bernardin sprouts,
A gentle cyon from ignoble stem.
Wonder not, Tuscan, if thou see me weep,
When I recall to mind those once lov’d names,
Guido of Prata, and of Azzo him
That dwelt with you; Tignoso and his troop,
With Traversaro’s house and Anastagio’s,
(Each race disherited) and beside these,
The ladies and the knights, the toils and ease,
That witch’d us into love and courtesy;
Where now such malice reigns in recreant hearts.
O Brettinoro! wherefore tarriest still,
Since forth of thee thy family hath gone,
And many, hating evil, join’d their steps?
Well doeth he, that bids his lineage cease,
Bagnacavallo; Castracaro ill,
And Conio worse, who care to propagate
A race of Counties from such blood as theirs.
Well shall ye also do, Pagani, then
When from amongst you tries your demon child.
Not so, howe’er, that henceforth there remain
True proof of what ye were. O Hugolin!
Thou sprung of Fantolini’s line! thy name
Is safe, since none is look’d for after thee
To cloud its lustre, warping from thy stock.
But, Tuscan, go thy ways; for now I take
Far more delight in weeping than in words.
Such pity for your sakes hath wrung my heart.”
We knew those gentle spirits at parting heard
Our steps. Their silence therefore of our way
Assur’d us. Soon as we had quitted them,
Advancing onward, lo! a voice that seem’d
Like vollied light’ning, when it rives the air,
Met us, and shouted, “Whosoever finds
Will slay me,” then fled from us, as the bolt
Lanc’d sudden from a downward-rushing cloud.
When it had giv’n short truce unto our hearing,
Behold the other with a crash as loud
As the quick-following thunder: “Mark in me
Aglauros turn’d to rock.” I at the sound
Retreating drew more closely to my guide.
Now in mute stillness rested all the air:
And thus he spake: “There was the galling bit.
But your old enemy so baits his hook,
He drags you eager to him. Hence nor curb
Avails you, nor reclaiming call. Heav’n calls
And round about you wheeling courts your gaze
With everlasting beauties. Yet your eye
Turns with fond doting still upon the earth.
Therefore He smites you who discerneth all.”

CANTO XV

As much as ’twixt the third hour’s close and dawn,
Appeareth of heav’n’s sphere, that ever whirls
As restless as an infant in his play,
So much appear’d remaining to the sun
Of his slope journey towards the western goal.
Evening was there, and here the noon of night;
and full upon our forehead smote the beams.
For round the mountain, circling, so our path
Had led us, that toward the sun-set now
Direct we journey’d: when I felt a weight
Of more exceeding splendour, than before,
Press on my front. The cause unknown, amaze
Possess’d me, and both hands against my brow
Lifting, I interpos’d them, as a screen,
That of its gorgeous superflux of light
Clipp’d the diminish’d orb. As when the ray,
Striking On water or the surface clear
Of mirror, leaps unto the opposite part,
Ascending at a glance, e’en as it fell,
(And so much differs from the stone, that falls)
Through equal space, as practice skill hath shown;
Thus with refracted light before me seemed
The ground there smitten; whence in sudden haste
My sight recoil’d. “What is this, sire belov’d!
’Gainst which I strive to shield the sight in vain?”
Cried I, “and which towards us moving seems?”
“Marvel not, if the family of heav’n,”
He answer’d, “yet with dazzling radiance dim
Thy sense it is a messenger who comes,
Inviting man’s ascent. Such sights ere long,
Not grievous, shall impart to thee delight,
As thy perception is by nature wrought
Up to their pitch.” The blessed angel, soon
As we had reach’d him, hail’d us with glad voice:
“Here enter on a ladder far less steep
Than ye have yet encounter’d.” We forthwith
Ascending, heard behind us chanted sweet,
“Blessed the merciful,” and “happy thou!
That conquer’st.” Lonely each, my guide and I
Pursued our upward way; and as we went,
Some profit from his words I hop’d to win,
And thus of him inquiring, fram’d my speech:
“What meant Romagna’s spirit, when he spake
Of bliss exclusive with no partner shar’d?”
He straight replied: “No wonder, since he knows,
What sorrow waits on his own worst defect,
If he chide others, that they less may mourn.
Because ye point your wishes at a mark,
Where, by communion of possessors, part
Is lessen’d, envy bloweth up the sighs of men.
No fear of that might touch ye, if the love
Of higher sphere exalted your desire.
For there, by how much more they call it ours,
So much propriety of each in good
Increases more, and heighten’d charity
Wraps that fair cloister in a brighter flame.”
“Now lack I satisfaction more,” said I,
“Than if thou hadst been silent at the first,
And doubt more gathers on my lab’ring thought.
How can it chance, that good distributed,
The many, that possess it, makes more rich,
Than if ’t were shar’d by few?” He answering thus:
“Thy mind, reverting still to things of earth,
Strikes darkness from true light. The highest good
Unlimited, ineffable, doth so speed
To love, as beam to lucid body darts,
Giving as much of ardour as it finds.
The sempiternal effluence streams abroad
Spreading, wherever charity extends.
So that the more aspirants to that bliss
Are multiplied, more good is there to love,
And more is lov’d; as mirrors, that reflect,
Each unto other, propagated light.
If these my words avail not to allay
Thy thirsting, Beatrice thou shalt see,
Who of this want, and of all else thou hast,
Shall rid thee to the full. Provide but thou
That from thy temples may be soon eras’d,
E’en as the two already, those five scars,
That when they pain thee worst, then kindliest heal,”
“Thou,” I had said, “content’st me,” when I saw
The other round was gain’d, and wond’ring eyes
Did keep me mute. There suddenly I seem’d
By an ecstatic vision wrapt away;
And in a temple saw, methought, a crowd
Of many persons; and at th’ entrance stood
A dame, whose sweet demeanour did express
A mother’s love, who said, “Child! why hast thou
Dealt with us thus? Behold thy sire and I
Sorrowing have sought thee;” and so held her peace,
And straight the vision fled. A female next
Appear’d before me, down whose visage cours’d
Those waters, that grief forces out from one
By deep resentment stung, who seem’d to say:
“If thou, Pisistratus, be lord indeed
Over this city, nam’d with such debate
Of adverse gods, and whence each science sparkles,
Avenge thee of those arms, whose bold embrace
Hath clasp’d our daughter; “and to fuel, meseem’d,
Benign and meek, with visage undisturb’d,
Her sovran spake: “How shall we those requite,
Who wish us evil, if we thus condemn
The man that loves us?” After that I saw
A multitude, in fury burning, slay
With stones a stripling youth, and shout amain
“Destroy, destroy!” and him I saw, who bow’d
Heavy with death unto the ground, yet made
His eyes, unfolded upward, gates to heav’n,

Praying forgiveness of th’ Almighty Sire,
Amidst that cruel conflict, on his foes,
With looks, that With compassion to their aim.
Soon as my spirit, from her airy flight
Returning, sought again the things, whose truth
Depends not on her shaping, I observ’d
How she had rov’d to no unreal scenes
Meanwhile the leader, who might see I mov’d,
As one, who struggles to shake off his sleep,
Exclaim’d: “What ails thee, that thou canst not hold
Thy footing firm, but more than half a league
Hast travel’d with clos’d eyes and tott’ring gait,
Like to a man by wine or sleep o’ercharg’d?”
“Beloved father! so thou deign,” said I,
“To listen, I will tell thee what appear’d
Before me, when so fail’d my sinking steps.”
He thus: “Not if thy Countenance were mask’d
With hundred vizards, could a thought of thine
How small soe’er, elude me. What thou saw’st
Was shown, that freely thou mightst ope thy heart
To the waters of peace, that flow diffus’d
From their eternal fountain. I not ask’d,
What ails thee? for such cause as he doth, who
Looks only with that eye which sees no more,
When spiritless the body lies; but ask’d,
To give fresh vigour to thy foot. Such goads
The slow and loit’ring need; that they be found
Not wanting, when their hour of watch returns.”
So on we journey’d through the evening sky
Gazing intent, far onward, as our eyes
With level view could stretch against the bright
Vespertine ray: and lo! by slow degrees
Gath’ring, a fog made tow’rds us, dark as night.
There was no room for ’scaping; and that mist
Bereft us, both of sight and the pure air.

CANTO XVI

Hell’s dunnest gloom, or night unlustrous, dark,
Of every planes ’reft, and pall’d in clouds,
Did never spread before the sight a veil
In thickness like that fog, nor to the sense
So palpable and gross. Ent’ring its shade,
Mine eye endured not with unclosed lids;
Which marking, near me drew the faithful guide,
Offering me his shoulder for a stay.
As the blind man behind his leader walks,
Lest he should err, or stumble unawares
On what might harm him, or perhaps destroy,
I journey’d through that bitter air and foul,
Still list’ning to my escort’s warning voice,
“Look that from me thou part not.” Straight I heard
Voices, and each one seem’d to pray for peace,
And for compassion, to the Lamb of God
That taketh sins away. Their prelude still
Was “Agnus Dei,” and through all the choir,
One voice, one measure ran, that perfect seem’d
The concord of their song. “Are these I hear
Spirits, O master?” I exclaim’d; and he:
“Thou aim’st aright: these loose the bonds of wrath.”