“O Tuscan, who through the city of fire alive art going, speaking thus modestly, may it please thee to stop in this place. Thy speech makes manifest that thou art native of that noble fatherland to which perchance I was too molestful.” Suddenly this sound issued from one of the coffers, wherefore I drew, in fear, a little nearer to my Leader. And he said to me, “Turn, what dost thou? Behold Farinata who hath uprisen; thou shalt see him all from the girdle up.”
I had already fixed my face on his, and he straightened himself up with breast and front as though he had Hell in great scorn. And the bold and ready hands of my Leader pushed me among the sepulchres to him, saying, “Let thy words be choice.”
When I was at the foot of his tomb, he looked at me a little, and then, as though disdainful, asked me, “Who were thy ancestors?” I, who was desirous to obey, concealed them not, but disclosed them all to him; whereon he raised his brows a little up, then said, “Fiercely were they adverse to me, and to my fathers, and to my party, so that twice I scattered them.” [1] “If they were driven out, they returned from every side,” replied I to him, “both one and the other time, but yours have not learned well that art.”
[1] Dante’s ancestors were Guelphs.
Then there arose, to view uncovered down to the chin, a shade at the side of this one; I think that it had risen on its knees. Round about me it looked, as if it had desire to see if another were with me, but when its expectancy was quite extinct, weeping it said, “If through this blind dungeon thou goest through loftiness of genius, my son, where is he? and why is he not with thee?” And I to him, “Of myself I come not; he who waits yonder leads me through here, whom perchance your Guido held in scorn.”[1]
[1] Guido Cavalcanti was charged with the same sin of unbelief as his father. Dante regards this as a sin specially contrary to right reason, typified by Virgil.
His words and the mode of the punishment had already read to me the name of this one, wherefore my answer was so full.
Suddenly straightening up, he cried, “How didst thou say, ‘he held’? lives he not still? doth not the sweet light strike his eyes?” When he took note of some delay that I made before answering, he fell again supine, and forth appeared no more.
But that other magnanimous one, at whose instance I had stayed, changed not aspect, nor moved his neck, nor bent his side. “And if,” he said, continuing his first words, “they have ill learned that art, it torments me more than this bed. But the face of the lady who ruleth here will not be rekindled fifty times ere thou shalt know how much that art weighs. And, so mayest thou return unto the sweet world, tell me wherefore is that people so pitiless against my race in its every law?” Then I to him, “The rout and the great carnage that colored the Arbia red cause such orison to be made in our temple.” After he had, sighing, shaken his head, “In that I was not alone,” he said, “nor surely without cause would I have moved with the rest; but I was alone,—there[1] where it was agreed by every one to lay Florence waste,—he who defended her with open face.” “Ah! so hereafter may your seed repose,” I prayed to him, “loose for me that knot, which here has entangled my judgment. It seems, if I rightly hear, that ye foresee that which time is bringing with him, and as to the present have another way.” “We see,” he said, “like those who have feeble light, the things that are far from us, so much still shineth on us the supreme Leader; when they draw near, or are, our intelligence is all vain, and, if some one report not to us, we know nothing of your human state. Therefore thou canst comprehend that our knowledge will be utterly dead from that moment when the gate of the future shall he closed.” Then, as compunctious for my fault I said, “Now wilt thou therefore tell that fallen one that his son is still conjoined with the living, and if just now I was dumb to answer, make him know that I was so because I was still thinking in that error which you have solved for me.”[2]
[1] At Empoli, in 1260, after the defeat of the Florentine Guelphs at Montaperti on the Arbia.