第11章

ERE Nessus yet had reach'd the other bank, We enter'd on a forest, where no track Of steps had worn a way. Not verdant there The foliage, but of dusky hue; not light The boughs and tapering, but with knares deform'd And matted thick: fruits there were none, but thorns Instead, with venom fill'd. Less sharp than these, Less intricate the brakes, wherein abide Those animals, that hate the cultur'd fields, Betwixt Corneto and Cecina's stream. Here the brute Harpies make their nest, the same Who from the Strophades the Trojan band Drove with dire boding of their future woe. Broad are their pennons, of the human form Their neck and count'nance, arm'd with talons keen The feet, and the huge belly fledge with wings These sit and wail on the drear mystic wood. The kind instructor in these words began: "Ere farther thou proceed, know thou art now I' th' second round, and shalt be, till thou come Upon the horrid sand: look therefore well Around thee, and such things thou shalt behold, As would my speech discredit." On all sides I heard sad plainings breathe, and none could see From whom they might have issu'd. In amaze Fast bound I stood. He, as it seem'd, believ'd, That I had thought so many voices came From some amid those thickets close conceal'd, And thus his speech resum'd: "If thou lop off A single twig from one of those ill plants, The thought thou hast conceiv'd shall vanish quite." Thereat a little stretching forth my hand, From a great wilding gather'd I a branch, And straight the trunk exclaim'd: "Why pluck'st thou me?" Then as the dark blood trickled down its side, These words it added: "Wherefore tear'st me thus? Is there no touch of mercy in thy breast? Men once were we, that now are rooted here. Thy hand might well have spar'd us, had we been The souls of serpents." As a brand yet green, That burning at one end from the' other sends A groaning sound, and hisses with the wind That forces out its way, so burst at once, Forth from the broken splinter words and blood. I, letting fall the bough, remain'd as one Assail'd by terror, and the sage replied: "If he, O injur'd spirit! could have believ'd What he hath seen but in my verse describ'd, He never against thee had stretch'd his hand. But I, because the thing surpass'd belief, Prompted him to this deed, which evennow Myself I rue. But tell me, who thou wast; That, for this wrong to do thee some amends, In the upper world (for thither to return Is granted him) thy fame he may revive." "That pleasant word of thine," the trunk replied "Hath so inveigled me, that I from speech Cannot refrain, wherein if I indulge A little longer, in the snare detain'd, Count it not grievous. I it was, who held Both keys to Frederick's heart, and turn'd the wards, Opening and shutting, with a skill so sweet, That besides me, into his inmost breast Scarce any other could admittance find. The faith I bore to my high charge was such, It cost me the life-blood that warm'd my veins. The harlot, who ne'er turn'd her gloating eyes From Caesar's household, common vice and pest Of courts, 'gainst me inflam'd the minds of all; And to Augustus they so spread the flame, That my glad honours chang'd to bitter woes. My soul, disdainful and disgusted, sought Refuge in death from scorn, and I became, Just as I was, unjust toward myself. By the new roots, which fix this stem, I swear, That never faith I broke to my liege lord, Who merited such honour; and of you, If any to the world indeed return, Clear he from wrong my memory, that lies Yet prostrate under envy's cruel blow." First somewhat pausing, till the mournful words Were ended, then to me the bard began: "Lose not the time; but speak and of him ask, If more thou wish to learn." Whence I replied: "Question thou him again of whatsoe'er Will, as thou think'st, content me; for no power Have I to ask, such pity' is at my heart." He thus resum'd; "So may he do for thee Freely what thou entreatest, as thou yet Be pleas'd, imprison'd Spirit! to declare, How in these gnarled joints the soul is tied; And whether any ever from such frame Be loosen'd, if thou canst, that also tell." Thereat the trunk breath'd hard, and the wind soon Chang'd into sounds articulate like these; Briefly ye shall be answer'd. When departs The fierce soul from the body, by itself Thence torn asunder, to the seventh gulf By Minos doom'd, into the wood it falls, No place assign'd, but wheresoever chance Hurls it, there sprouting, as a grain of spelt, It rises to a sapling, growing thence A savage plant. The Harpies, on its leaves Then feeding, cause both pain and for the pain A vent to grief. We, as the rest, shall come For our own spoils, yet not so that with them We may again be clad; for what a man Takes from himself it is not just he have. Here we perforce shall drag them; and throughout Thedismal glade our bodies shall be hung, Each on the wild thorn of his wretched shade." Attentive yet to listen to the trunk We stood, expecting farther speech, when us A noise surpris'd, as when a man perceives The wild boar and the hunt approach his place Of station'd watch, who of the beasts and boughs Loud rustling round him hears. And lo! there came Two naked, torn with briers, in headlong flight, That they before them broke each fan o' th' wood. "Haste now," the foremost cried, "now haste thee death!" The' other, as seem'd, impatient of delay Exclaiming, "Lano! not so bent for speed Thy sinews, in the lists of Toppo's field." And then, for that perchance no longer breath Suffic'd him, of himself and of a bush One group he made. Behind them was the wood Full of black female mastiffs, gaunt and fleet, As greyhounds that have newly slipp'd the leash. On him, who squatted down, they stuck their fangs, And having rent him piecemeal bore away The tortur'd limbs. My guide then seiz'd my hand, And led me to the thicket, which in vain Mourn'd through its bleeding wounds: "O Giacomo Of Sant' Andrea! what avails it thee," It cried, "that of me thou hast made thy screen? For thy ill life what blame on me recoils?" When o'er it he had paus'd, my master spake: "Say who wast thou, that at so many points Breath'st out with blood thy lamentable speech?" He answer'd: "Oh, ye spirits: arriv'd in time To spy the shameful havoc, that from me My leaves hath sever'd thus, gather them up, And at the foot of their sad parent-tree Carefully lay them. In that city' I dwelt, Who for the Baptist her first patron chang'd, Whence he for this shall cease not with his art To work her woe: and if there still remain'd not On Arno's passage some faint glimpse of him, Those citizens, who rear'd once more her walls Upon the ashes left by Attila, Had labour'd without profit of their toil. I slung the fatal noose from my own roof."SOON as the charity of native land Wrought in my bosom, I the scatter'd leaves Collected, and to him restor'd, who now Was hoarse with utt'rance. To the limit thence We came, which from the third the second round Divides, and where of justice is display'd Contrivance horrible. Things then first seen Clearlier to manifest, I tell how next A plain we reach'd, that from its sterile bed Each plant repell'd. The mournful wood waves round Its garland on all sides, as round the wood Spreads the sad foss. There, on the very edge, Our steps we stay'd. It was an area wide Of arid sand and thick, resembling most The soil that erst by Cato's foot was trod. Vengeance of Heav'n! Oh ! how shouldst thou be fear'd By all, who read what here my eyes beheld! Of naked spirits many a flock I saw, All weeping piteously, to different laws Subjected: for on the' earth some lay supine, Some crouching close were seated, others pac'd Incessantly around; the latter tribe, More numerous, those fewer who beneath The torment lay, but louder in their grief. O'er all the sand fell slowly wafting down Dilated flakes of fire, as flakes of snow On Alpine summit, when the wind is hush'd. As in the torrid Indian clime, the son Of Ammon saw upon his warrior band Descending, solid flames, that to the ground Came down: whence he bethought him with his troop To trample on the soil; for easier thus The vapour was extinguish'd, while alone; So fell the eternal fiery flood, wherewith The marble glow'd underneath, as under stove The viands, doubly to augment the pain. Unceasing was the play of wretched hands, Now this, now that way glancing, to shake off The heat, still falling fresh. I thus began: "Instructor! thou who all things overcom'st, Except the hardy demons, that rush'd forth To stop our entrance at the gate, say who Is yon huge spirit, that, as seems, heeds not The burning, but lies writhen in proud scorn, As by the sultry tempest immatur'd?" Straight he himself, who was aware I ask'd My guide of him, exclaim'd: "Such as I was When living, dead such now I am. If Jove Weary his workman out, from whom in ire He snatch'd the lightnings, that at my last day Transfix'd me, if the rest be weary out At their black smithy labouring by turns In Mongibello, while he cries aloud; "Help, help, good Mulciber!" as erst he cried In thePhlegraean warfare, and the bolts Launch he full aim'd at me with all his might, He never should enjoy a sweet revenge." Then thus my guide, in accent higher rais'd Than I before had heard him: "Capaneus! Thou art more punish'd, in that this thy pride Lives yet unquench'd: no torrent, save thy rage, Were to thy fury pain proportion'd full." Next turning round to me with milder lip He spake: "This of the seven kings was one, Who girt the Theban walls with siege, and held, As still he seems to hold, God in disdain, And sets his high omnipotence at nought. But, as I told him, his despiteful mood Is ornament well suits the breast that wears it. Follow me now; and look thou set not yet Thy foot in the hot sand, but to the wood Keep ever close." Silently on we pass'd To where there gushes from the forest's bound A little brook, whose crimson'd wave yet lifts My hair with horror. As the rill, that runs From Bulicame, to be portion'd out Among the sinful women; so ran this Down through the sand, its bottom and each bank Stone-built, and either margin at its side, Whereon I straight perceiv'd our passage lay. "Of all that I have shown thee, since that gate We enter'd first, whose threshold is to none Denied, nought else so worthy of regard, As is this river, has thine eye discern'd, O'er which the flaming volley all is quench'd." So spake my guide; and I him thence besought, That having giv'n me appetite to know, The food he too would give, that hunger crav'd. "In midst of ocean," forthwith he began, "A desolate country lies, which Crete is nam'd, Under whose monarch in old times the world Liv'd pure and chaste. A mountain rises there, Call'd Ida, joyous once with leaves and streams, Deserted now like a forbidden thing. It was the spot which Rhea, Saturn's spouse, Chose for the secret cradle of her son; And better to conceal him, drown'd in shouts His infant cries. Within the mount, upright An ancient form there stands and huge, that turns His shoulders towards Damiata, and at Rome As in his mirror looks. Of finest gold His head is shap'd, pure silver are the breast And arms; thence to the middle is of brass. And downward all beneath well-temper'd steel, Save the right foot of potter's clay, on which Than on the other more erect he stands, Each part except the gold, is rent throughout; And from the fissure tears distil, which join'd Penetrate to that cave. They in their course Thus far precipitated down the rock Form Acheron, and Styx, and Phlegethon;Then by this straiten'd channel passing hence Beneath, e'en to the lowest depth of all, Form there Cocytus, of whose lake (thyself Shall see it) I here give thee no account." Then I to him: "If from our world this sluice Be thus deriv'd; wherefore to us but now Appears it at this edge?" He straight replied: "The place, thou know'st, is round; and though great part Thou have already pass'd, still to the left Descending to the nethermost, not yet Hast thou the circuit made of the whole orb. Wherefore if aught of new to us appear, It needs not bring up wonder in thy looks." Then I again inquir'd: "Where flow the streams Of Phlegethon and Lethe? for of one Thou tell'st not, and the other of that shower, Thou say'st, is form'd." He answer thus return'd: "Doubtless thy questions all well pleas'd I hear. Yet the red seething wave might have resolv'd One thou proposest. Lethe thou shalt see, But not within this hollow, in the place, Whither to lave themselves the spirits go, Whose blame hath been by penitence remov'd." He added: "Time is now we quit the wood. Look thou my steps pursue: the margins give Safe passage, unimpeded by the flames; For over them all vapour is extinct."One of the solid margins bears us now Envelop'd in the mist, that from the stream Arising, hovers o'er, and saves from fire Both piers and water. As the Flemings rear Their mound, 'twixt Ghent and Bruges, to chase back The ocean, fearing his tumultuous tide That drives toward them, or the Paduans theirs Along the Brenta, to defend their towns And castles, ere the genial warmth be felt On Chiarentana's top; such were the mounds, So fram'd, though not in height or bulk to these Made equal, by the master, whosoe'er He was, that rais'd them here. We from the wood Were not so far remov'd, that turning round I might not have discern'd it, when we met A troop of spirits, who came beside the pier. They each one ey'd us, as at eventide One eyes another under a new moon, And toward us sharpen'd their sight as keen, As an old tailor at his needle's eye. Thus narrowly explor'd by all the tribe, I was agniz'd of one, who by the skirt Caught me, and cried, "What wonder have we here!" And I, when he to me outstretch'd his arm, Intently fix'd my ken on his parch'd looks, That although smirch'd with fire, they hinder'd not But I remember'd him; and towards his face My hand inclining, answer'd: "Sir! Brunetto! And art thou here?" He thus to me: "My son! Oh let it not displease thee, if Brunetto Latini but a little space with thee Turn back, and leave his fellows to proceed." I thus to him replied: "Much as I can, I thereto pray thee; and if thou be willing, That I here seat me with thee, I consent; His leave, with whom I journey, first obtain'd." "O son!" said he, " whoever of this throng One instant stops, lies then a hundred years, No fan to ventilate him, when the fire Smites sorest. Pass thou therefore on. I close Will at thy garments walk, and then rejoin My troop, who go mourning their endless doom." I dar'd not from the path descend to tread On equal ground with him, but held my head Bent down, as one who walks in reverent guise. "What chance or destiny," thus be began, "Ere the last day conducts thee here below? And who is this, that shows to thee the way?" "There up aloft," I answer'd, "in the life Serene, I wander'd in a valley lost, Before mine age had to its fullness reach'd. But yester-morn I left it: then once more Into that vale returning, him I met; And by this path homeward he leads meback." "If thou," he answer'd, "follow but thy star, Thou canst not miss at last a glorious haven: Unless in fairer days my judgment err'd. And if my fate so early had not chanc'd, Seeing the heav'ns thus bounteous to thee, I Had gladly giv'n thee comfort in thy work. But that ungrateful and malignant race, Who in old times came down from Fesole, Ay and still smack of their rough mountain-flint, Will for thy good deeds shew thee enmity. Nor wonder; for amongst ill-savour'd crabs It suits not the sweet fig-tree lay her fruit. Old fame reports them in the world for blind, Covetous, envious, proud. Look to it well: Take heed thou cleanse thee of their ways. For thee Thy fortune hath such honour in reserve, That thou by either party shalt be crav'd With hunger keen: but be the fresh herb far From the goat's tooth. The herd of Fesole May of themselves make litter, not touch the plant, If any such yet spring on their rank bed, In which the holy seed revives, transmitted From those true Romans, who still there remain'd, When it was made the nest of so much ill." "Were all my wish fulfill'd," I straight replied, "Thou from the confines of man's nature yet Hadst not been driven forth; for in my mind Is fix'd, and now strikes full upon my heart The dear, benign, paternal image, such As thine was, when so lately thou didst teach me The way for man to win eternity; And how I priz'd the lesson, it behooves, That, long as life endures, my tongue should speak, What of my fate thou tell'st, that write I down: And with another text to comment on For her I keep it, the celestial dame, Who will know all, if I to her arrive. This only would I have thee clearly note: That so my conscience have no plea against me; Do fortune as she list, I stand prepar'd. Not new or strange such earnest to mine ear. Speed fortune then her wheel, as likes her best, The clown his mattock; all things have their course." Thereat my sapient guide upon his right Turn'd himself back, then look'd at me and spake: "He listens to good purpose who takes note." I not the less still on my way proceed, Discoursing with Brunetto, and inquire Who are most known and chief among his tribe. "To know of some is well;" thus he replied, "But of the rest silence may best beseem. Time would not serve us for report so long. In brief I tell thee, that all these were clerks, Men of great learning and no less renown, By one same sin polluted in the world. With them is Priscian, and Accorso's son Francesco herds amongthat wretched throng: And, if the wish of so impure a blotch Possess'd thee, him thou also might'st have seen, Who by the servants' servant was transferr'd From Arno's seat to Bacchiglione, where His ill-strain'd nerves he left. I more would add, But must from farther speech and onward way Alike desist, for yonder I behold A mist new-risen on the sandy plain. A company, with whom I may not sort, Approaches. I commend my TREASURE to thee, Wherein I yet survive; my sole request." This said he turn'd, and seem'd as one of those, Who o'er Verona's champain try their speed For the green mantle, and of them he seem'd, Not he who loses but who gains the prize.