| |
| NOW came I where the water’s din was heard | |
| As down it fell into the other round, | |
| Resounding like the hum of swarming bees: | |
| When forth together issued from a troop, | |
| That pass’d beneath the fierce tormenting storm, | 5 |
| Three spirits, running swift. They toward us came, | |
| And each one cried aloud, “Oh! do thou stay, | |
| Whom, by the fashion of thy garb, we deem | |
| To be some inmate of our evil land.” | |
| Ah me! what wounds I mark’d upon their limbs, | 10 |
| Recent and old, inflicted by the flames. | |
| E’en the remembrance of them grieves me yet. | |
| Attentive to their cry, my teacher paused, | |
| And turned to me his visage, and then spake: | |
| “Wait now: our courtesy these merit well: | 15 |
| And were’t not for the nature of the place, | |
| Whence glide the fiery darts, I should have said, | |
| That haste had better suited thee than them.” | |
| They, when we stopp’d, resumed their ancient wail, | |
| And, soon as they had reach’d us, all the three | 20 |
| Whirl’d round together in one restless wheel. | |
| As naked champions, smear’d with slippery oil | |
| Are wont, intent, to watch their place of hold | |
| And vantage, ere in closer strife they meet; | |
| Thus each one, as he wheel’d, his countenance | 25 |
| At me directed, so that opposite | |
| The neck moved ever to the twinkling feet. | |
| “If woe of this unsound and dreary waste,” | |
| Thus one began, “added to our sad cheer | |
| Thus peel’d with flame, do call forth scorn on us | 30 |
| And our entreaties, let our great renown | |
| Incline thee to inform us who thou art, | |
| That dost imprint, with living feet unharm’d, | |
| The soil of Hell. He, in whose track thou seest | |
| My steps pursuing, naked though he be | 35 |
| And reft of all, was of more high estate | |
| Than thou believest; grandchild of the chaste | |
| Gualdrada, 1 him they Guidoguerra call’d, | |
| Who in his lifetime many a noble act | |
| Achieved, both by his wisdom and his sword. | 40 |
| The other, next to me that beats the sand, | |
| Is Aldobrandi, 2 name deserving well, | |
| In the upper world, of honor; and myself, | |
| Who in this torment do partake with them, | |
| Am Rusticucci, 3 whom, past doubt, my wife, | 45 |
| Of savage temper, more than aught beside | |
| Hath to this evil brought.” If from the fire | |
| I had been shelter’d, down amidst them straight | |
| I then had cast me; nor my guide, I deem, | |
| Would have restrain’d my going: but that fear | 50 |
| Of the dire burning vanquish’d the desire, | |
| Which made me eager of their wish’d embrace. | |
| I then began: “Nor scorn, but grief much more, | |
| Such as long time alone can cure, your doom | |
| Fix’d deep within me, soon as this my lord | 55 |
| Spake words, whose tenor taught me to expect | |
| That such a race, as ye are, was at hand. | |
| I am a countryman of yours, who still | |
| Affectionate have utter’d, and have heard | |
| Your deeds and names renown’d. Leaving the gall, | 60 |
| For the sweet fruit I go, that a sure guide | |
| Hath promised to me. But behoves, that far | |
| As to the centre first I downward tend.” “So may long space thy spirit guide thy limbs,”He answer straight return’d; “and so thy fame | |
| Shine bright when thou art gone, as thou shalt tell, | |
| If courtesy and valor, as they wont, | 65 |
| Dwell in our city, or have vanish’d clean: | |
| For one amidst us late condemn’d to wail, | |
| Borsiere, 4 yonder walking with his peers, | |
| Grieves us no little by the news he brings.” | |
| “An upstart multitude and sudden gains, | 70 |
| Pride and excess, O Florence! have in thee | |
| Engender’d, so that now in tears thou mourn’st!” | |
| Thus cried I, with my face upraised, and they | |
| All three, who for an answer took my words, | |
| Look’d at each other, as men look when truth | 75 |
| Comes to their ear. “If at so little cost,” | |
| They all at once rejoin’d, “thou satisfy | |
| Others who question thee, O happy thou! | |
| Gifted with words so apt to speak thy thought. | |
| Wherefore, if thou escape this darksome clime, | 80 |
| Returning to behold the radiant stars, | |
| When thou with pleasure shalt retrace the past, 5 | |
| See that of us thou speak among mankind.” | |
| This said, they broke the circle, and so swift | |
| Fled, that as pinions seem’d their nimble feet. | 85 |
| Not in so short a time might one have said | |
| “Amen,” as they had vanish’d. Straight my guide | |
| Pursued his track. I follow’d: and small space | |
| Had we past onward, when the water’s sound | |
| Was now so near at hand, that we had scarce | 90 |
| Heard one another’s speech for the loud din. | |
| E’en as the river, 6 that first holds its course | |
| Unmingled from the Mount of Vesulo, | |
| On the left side of Apennine, toward | |
| The east, which Acquacheta higher up | 95 |
| They call, ere it descend into the vale, | |
| At Forli, 7 by that name no longer known, | |
| Rebellows o’er Saint Benedict, roll’d on | |
| From the Alpine summit down a precipice, | |
| Where space 8 enough to lodge a thousand spreads; | 100 |
| Thus downward from a craggy steep we found | |
| That this dark wave resounded, roaring loud, | |
| So that the ear its clamour soon had stunn’d. | |
| I had a cord 9 that braced my girdle round, | |
| Wherewith I erst had thought fast bound to take | 105 |
| The painted leopard. This when I had all | |
| Unloosen’d from me (so my master bade) | |
| I gather’d up, and stretch’d it forth to him. | |
| Then to the right he turn’d, and from the brink | |
| Standing few paces distant, cast it down | 110 |
| Into the deep abyss. “And somewhat strange,” | |
| Thus to myself I spake, “signal so strange | |
| Betokens, which my guide with earnest eye | |
| Thus follows.” Ah! what caution must men use | |
| With those who look not at the deed alone, | 115 |
| But spy into the thoughts with subtle skill. | |
| “Quickly shall come,” he said, “what I expect; | |
| Thine eye discover quickly that, whereof | |
| Thy thought is dreaming.” Ever to that truth, | |
| Which but the semblance of a falsehood wears, | 120 |
| A man, if possible, should bar his lip; | |
| Since, although blameless, he incurs reproach. | |
| But silence here were vain; and by these notes, | |
| Which now I sing, reader, I swear to thee, | |
| So may they favor find to latest times! | 125 |
| That through the gross and murky air I spied | |
| A shape come swimming up, that might have quell’d | |
| The stoutest heart with wonder; in such guise | |
| As one returns, who hath been down to loose | |
| An anchor grappled fast against some rock, | 130 |
| Or to aught else that in the salt wave lies, | |
| Who, upward springing, close draws in his feet. | |
