The Divine Comedy. Данте Алигьери

other, next to me that beats the sand,

      Is Aldobrandi, name deserving well,

      In the upper world, of honour; and myself

      Who in this torment do partake with them,

      Am Rusticucci, whom, past doubt, my wife

      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

      Of the dire burning vanquish'd the desire,

      Which made me eager of their wish'd embrace.

      I then began: “Not scorn, but grief much more,

      Such as long time alone can cure, your doom

      Fix'd deep within me, soon as this my lord

      Spake words, whose tenour 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

      For the sweet fruit I go, that a sure guide

      Hath promis'd to me. But behooves, 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 valour, as they wont,

      Dwell in our city, or have vanish'd clean?

      For one amidst us late condemn'd to wail,

      Borsiere, yonder walking with his peers,

      Grieves us no little by the news he brings.”

      “An upstart multitude and sudden gains,

      Pride and excess, O Florence! have in thee

      Engender'd, so that now in tears thou mourn'st!”

      Thus cried I with my face uprais'd, and they

      All three, who for an answer took my words,

      Look'd at each other, as men look when truth

      Comes to their ear. “If thou at other times,”

      They all at once rejoin'd, “so easily

      Satisfy those, who question, happy thou,

      Gifted with words, so apt to speak thy thought!

      Wherefore if thou escape this darksome clime,

      Returning to behold the radiant stars,

      When thou with pleasure shalt retrace the past,

      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.

      Not in so short a time might one have said

      “Amen,” as they had vanish'd. Straight my guide

      Pursu'd his track. I follow'd; and small space

      Had we pass'd onward, when the water's sound

      Was now so near at hand, that we had scarce

      Heard one another's speech for the loud din.

      E'en as the river, that holds on its course

      Unmingled, from the mount of Vesulo,

      On the left side of Apennine, toward

      The east, which Acquacheta higher up

      They call, ere it descend into the vale,

      At Forli by that name no longer known,

      Rebellows o'er Saint Benedict, roll'd on

      From the Alpine summit down a precipice,

      Where space enough to lodge a thousand spreads;

      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 that brac'd my girdle round,

      Wherewith I erst had thought fast bound to take

      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

      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,

      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,

      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 favour find to latest times!

      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,

      Or to aught else that in the salt wave lies,

      Who upward springing close draws in his feet.

      Canto XVII

      “Lo! the fell monster with the deadly sting!

      Who passes mountains, breaks through fenced walls

      And firm embattled spears, and with his filth

      Taints all the world!” Thus me my guide address'd,

      And beckon'd him, that he should come to shore,

      Near to the stony causeway's utmost edge.

      Forthwith that image vile of fraud appear'd,

      His head and upper part expos'd on land,

      But laid not on the shore his bestial train.

      His face the semblance of a just man's wore,

      So kind and gracious was its outward cheer;

      The rest was serpent all: two shaggy claws

      Reach'd to the armpits, and the back and breast,

      And either side, were painted o'er with nodes

      And orbits. Colours variegated more

      Nor Turks nor Tartars e'er on cloth of state

      With interchangeable embroidery wove,

      Nor spread Arachne o'er her curious loom.

      As ofttimes a light