And although, because of the cold, as from a callus, all feeling had left its abode in my face, it now seemed to me I felt some wind, wherefore I, “My Master, who moves this? Is not every vapor[1] quenched here below?” Whereon he to me, “Speedily shalt thou be where thine eye shall make answer to thee of this, beholding the cause that rains down the blast.”
[1] Wind being supposed to be cansed by the action of the sun on the vapors of the atmosphere.
And one of the wretches of the cold crust cried out to us, “O souls so cruel that the last station is given to you, lift from my eyes the hard veils, so that I may vent the grief that swells my heart, a little ere the weeping re-congeal!” Wherefore I to him, “If thou wilt that I relieve thee, tell me who thou art, and if I rid thee not, may it be mine to go to the bottom of the ice.” He replied then, “I am friar Alberigo;[1] I am he of the fruits of the bad garden, and here I receive a date for a fig.”[2] “Oh!” said I to him; “art thou now already dead?” And he to me, “How it may go with my body in the world above I bear no knowledge. Such vantage hath this Ptolomaea[3] that oftentime the soul falls hither ere Atropos hath given motion to it.[4] And that thou may the more willingly scrape the glassy tears from my face, know that soon as the soul betrays, as I did, its body is taken from it by a demon, who thereafter governs it until its time be all revolved. The soul falls headlong into this cistern, and perchance the body of the shade that here behind me winters still appears above; thou oughtest to know him if thou comest down but now. He is Ser Branca d’ Oria,[5] and many years have passed since he was thus shut up.” “I think,” said I to him, “that thou deceivest me, for Branca d’ Oria is not yet dead, and he eats, and drinks, and sleeps, and puts on clothes.” “In the ditch of the Malebranche above,” he said, “there where the tenacious pitch is boiling, Michel Zanche had not yet arrived when this one left in his own stead a devil in his body, and in that of one of his near kin, who committed the treachery together with him. But now stretch out hither thy hand; open my eyes for me.” And I opened them not for him, and to be rude to him was courtesy.
[1] Alberigo de’ Manfredi, of Faenza; one of the Jovial Friars (see Canto xxiii). Having received a blow from one of his kinsmen, he pretended to forgive it, and invited him and his son to a feast. Toward the end of the meal he gave a preconcerted signal by calling out, “Bring the fruit,” upon which his emissaries rushed in and killed the two guests. The “fruit of Brother Alberigo” became a proverb.
[2] A fig is the cheapest of Tuscan fruits; the imported date is more costly.
[3] The third ring of ice, named for that Ptolemy of Jericho who slew his father-in-law, the high-priest Simon, and his sons (1 Maccabees wi. 11-16).
[4] That is, before its life on earth is ended.
[5] Murderer, in 1275, of his father-in-law, Michel Zanche. Already heard of in the fifth pit (Canto xxii. 88).
Ah Genoese! men strange to all morality and full of all corruption, why are ye not scattered from the world? For with the worst spirit of Romagna I found one of you such that for his deeds in soul he is bathed in Cocytus, and in body he seems still alive on earth.